


Wires and Stars: Consummation

by tatterdemalionAmberite (amberite), titianArchivist



Series: Wires and Stars [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Blood, Body Horror, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Captorcest - Freeform, Codependency, Dream Sex, Dream Sharing, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Helmsman, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Blurring, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Neuroplasticity Horror, PTSD, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Relationship Problems, Revolution, Suicidal Thoughts, Weirdness, ancestorcest, fixing Alternia is hard, it's hard and no one understands, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberite/pseuds/tatterdemalionAmberite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/titianArchivist/pseuds/titianArchivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>==> Present Sollux: <strong>You know what you have to do.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. here and now it doesn't matter the highway you have taken

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, warnings will be added as content is added, and specific chapter warnings will continue in chapter notes when it seems appropriate. (The M rating starts at chapter 2, and goes to E somewhere within a couple more chapters of this juncture, so we added that early.)
> 
>  _Consummation_ is where we start having an entire shipping grid (which Titian and I legit doodled in crayon when we met in person. EXCELLENT LIFE CHOICES I say.) I'm not going to post every single relationship in the tags right now, so as to avoid spamming them, as the focus is still on Sollux and what he sees and feels and goes through, and most of the others are in the periphery. But the [open spoiler policy](http://tatterdemalionamberite.tumblr.com/post/47438272066/wires-and-stars-psa) still stands. We will happily not only tell you if our story will punch you in the feels (answer: probably) but also exactly _how_ it will punch you in the feels and what the aftercare will be like, because aftercare is important. 
> 
> New soundtrack songs for _Consummation_ are:  
>  ThouShaltNot - Trial By Fire  
> Loch Lomond - Wax and Wire
> 
> Chapter titles may be lines from these or sometimes from songs used in _Initiation_.

==> Present Sollux: Awaken. 

You're already awake. You're in your recuperacoon, and it's the crack of dusk (odd, being awake right then, not so much earlier or later) and you don't remember sleeping - no, you _do_ , you saw Astris, like always, and -

And it makes you suddenly breathless to feel the ongoing rhythm of starship noise in the back of your mind, _not_ on the frequency bands of the dying, because you remember what was about to begin, and you're tight-chested and glad and sorry - you remember _everything_.

Your ablutions are cursory and by the time you're done Trollian is already dinging. You take a deep breath and look.

\-- apocalypseArisen [AA] began trolling twinArmageddons \--

AA: s0llux  
AA: what did y0u d0 t0 the timeline  
TA: ii don’t know, aa, are you 2tiill a collectiion of robot2?  
AA: n0  
TA: what do you remember?  
AA: i remember things that didnt happen  
AA: like being a c0llection of r0b0ts  
TA: yeah me two.  
AA: n0 i think i remember m0re than the rest 0f y0u.  
AA: i remember things that didnt happen even when 0ther things that didnt happen happened  
TA: what doe2 that even MEAN.  
AA: its hard t0 explain  
AA: i kn0w i was supp0sed t0 tell y0u i was s0rry  
AA: 0nce  
AA: but i d0nt kn0w what i meant by that n0w  
TA: no, don't even 2tart that 2hiit, ii thiink we have e2tablii2hed that you are not even allowed two be 2orry for anythiing untiil ii have been apologiizing for longer than eiither of u2 could normally be aliive.  
AA: that w0rd  
TA: what word?  
AA: n0rmal. was it supp0sed to be  
AA: a funny j0ke  
TA: ...no, ii don't thiink 2o.  
AA: 0k  
AA: i remember that y0u like it when i laugh  
AA: s0 i am trying t0 remember t0 d0 that

You sit there for a moment so completely stunned that you can’t think of what to say, frozen in place until a tear falls into the keyboard of your husktop and you jerk back, irritably, swiping at the keys so the sensitive hardware won’t gum up.

TA: aa, you don’t have two do that.

you type, wishing desperately that she’ll respond, react, argue with you, insist - that somewhere in that strange placid collection of impressions and memories and voices you’ll strike a mark, find a stray ornery feeling, but:

AA: 0kay

You're not sure what to say to that, so you just open up another tab.

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling cuttlefishCuller \--

TA: hey feferii.  
CC: You )(ardly ever call me by name! 38D  
TA: 2o you remember me, then, that'2 good.  
TA: what el2e do you remember?  
CC: EV--ERYFIN! I t)(ink.  
CC: And Eridan remembers me breaking up wit)( )(im, at any rate. )(e's trying to get me to )(ake )(im back. 38C  
CC: Wow, t)(is is reely complicated. Your matesprit... is alive now, again?  
TA: ye2.

And the memories you're integrating are all starting to fold in on you, to coalesce at some gravitational center that you didn't know you possessed; that you _didn't_ possess, yestereve, in this timeline. You're going to need to speak up, you're going to need to act; it's taking shape in your mind, outside your mind. Of all the stupid pivot points for the fate of the world, a Trollian chat seems the most ridiculous, but you can feel the probabilities winding about you and Feferi, pulling heavy and tight.

This is going to be the most impossible thing you've asked of anyone, ever. And you still don't feel worthy of demanding the respect it will require to be at the center of this. But at the same time, there's no one else who can start this off and see it through, and you feel more certain of that with each passing moment. 

You take a deep breath and type:

TA: feferii, do you tru2t me?  
TA: no, wrong que2tiion, what ii need to a2k ii2 how MUCH do you tru2t me?  
CC: I said I would bereef you, and I did; does t)(at answer your question?  
TA: maybe.  
TA: if ii told you we would need two change the world, what would you 2ay?

The chat window is dead for what you know is less than half a minute, but it feels like sweeps pass while you wait for her answer.

CC: I would say I've known t)(at was true for a long time!  
CC: But you manta t)(at more t)(an abstractly, didn't you?  
TA: ye2.  
TA: and thii2 ii2 goiing two requiire you front and center, ii thiink you know why.  
CC: I'll follow your lead w)(et)(er or not you still )(ave romantic feelings for me, Sollux.  
CC: And gudgeon some sense into you w)(enever you need me to. 38D  
TA: ii have a lot of feeliing2 about you, ff.  
TA: ii don't know how two cla22iify them riight now becau2e of everythiing that never happened.  
TA: ii mean iin thii2 tiimeliine we techniically haven't kii22ed yet, but that doe2n't mean ii don't remember kii22iing you, ii do, and ii want you iin my liife and iin my quadrant2, and not iin a caliigiinou2 quadrant, but out2iide of that, everythiing ii2 compliicated.  
CC: It sure as S)(-ELL is!  
CC: But you're s)(rimportant to me and you minnow your s)(it.  
CC: Yea)(, we need to do somefin. T)(e question is w)(at. I've t)(oug)(t aboat t)(is before and I don't want to sea our friends )(urt for nofin. 38C  
TA: ii wa2 thiinkiing that way two, but now ii'm realiiziing they have 2kiin iin the game them2elve2.

You double-check your proxy settings before going on, even though you're not using words that should trip a surveillance bot.

TA: efiin iif any iindiiviidual troll among them could 2urviive a2cen2iion, a2 a whole... ii know two many of theiir 2ecret2 now two thiink they could all make iit.   
TA: two many mutatiion2 and iidiio2yncra2iie2.  
TA: ii mean a2iide from the problem of kk'2 blood, or what'2 goiing two happen two me by majoriity, iif ii don't cull my2elf fiir2t, whiich we can all agree ii2 ju2t...  
TA: well... ii thiink ii have a 2liightly 2maller a22load of nope for culliing my2elf but we don't need two 2pliit haiir2, eiither way we are up two our nook2 iin metriic a22load2 of nope.  
CC: You alwaves )(ave suc)( lovely mental images, Sollux!  
TA: ii aiim two plea2e.  
TA: anywave2...  
TA: wow, iit feel2 weiird u2iing your oceaniic pun2, liike ii've been doiing iit for nearly a periigee, and at the 2ame tiime ii know ii've never done iit before.  
TA: iit'2 liike we've...doubled back.  
TA:    
CC: 38D

Three more alerts are going off at the same time. You open up the chats all at once, squinting at your screen, as if that would somehow shield your eyes from the unknown contents.

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--

GC: 1S 1T JUST M3 OR D1D MR V4N1LL4 M1LKSH4K3 T4ST3 L3SS OBNOX1OUS 1N TH1S T1M3L1N3 >:P

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--

CG: SO I GUESS THAT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT.

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--

GA: What The Fuck Should I Do About Vriska  
GA: She Thinks We Have Yet To Play The Game  
GA: Which Is Technically True Only Im Pretty Sure We Will Not Be Doing That Anymore  
GA: She Doesnt Remember Anything

You copy-paste the same line into all three windows.

TA: how the fuck 2hould ii know, ii'm only the 2oftware engiineer.

==> Sollux: Deal with these trolls later. Get back to FF.

TA: let'2 meet up a2 2oon a2 we can, ii don't want thii2 two waiit.

~~~

==> Reader: Wait a minute here. The game isn't going to happen in this timestream, right? So why am I getting these command prompts?

Ah, yes. You have waited so patiently; what am I to do but resume my expository function for you? I was telling you about CANCELLED SESSIONS, and now you have the background knowledge to understand the implications. Very well, then. I shall continue.

A CANCELLED SESSION results when a player makes a decision in the course of play which restores their universe to a pre-Reckoning state and removes gameplay from the timeline.

However, due to TIME SHENANIGANS, events which happen within the game are always necessary antecedents for events which have happened prior to the Reckoning, including but not limited to ectobiological loops and interventions of First Guardians. Like the original White Text Guy, who has now never existed.

==> Then how did all the...

That’s where I come in. Or rather, came in at the beginning of the universe, in this iteration. You may call me Tiresias. 

The template that gave rise to Doc Scratch, AKA Mr. Vanilla Milkshake, AKA White Text Guy, in the previous iteration of the universe, birthed me instead in this one. Call it the stray whim of a universe never to be born. The private joke of a fertile imagination so interwoven with the Horrorterrors that its tendency toward obscure references has carried through into timelines that preceded it; timelines it would not otherwise ever touch.

But leaving aside the significance of my moniker: in a CANCELLED SESSION, the game elements which are retroactively necessary to the universe remain in place - or more accurately, are substituted with elements of identical function. 

Or mostly-identical function. Despite the sterling quality of my sinister machinations and near-omniscience, I am an utterly terrible host. And I am not shepherding the universe toward apocalypse. Rather, I deal in the dangling and resolution of loose ends; I supply alternate beginnings and endings to devices within the framework of the game that would otherwise be at a loss.

==> So do you really have, _you_ know...

The context here is a planet full of hermaphroditic aliens. My gender presentation is the most irrelevant thing we could possibly drag into this meta-narrative sideline.

But I have inherited my predecessor's infinite supply of command prompts. Take as many as you please. 

~~~

==> Sollux: await and plan.

Even with all possible security measures, you think it's prudent to wait to meet in a physical location before laying out plans in their entirety. So you've arranged to see Feferi first, have her check whether your nascent ideas seem sound, and then…

Then you're going to involve everyone else. One at a time, mostly. Somewhere where communications aren't recorded, which feels threatening to you even though it's for your own protection. 

But right now: right now you're hearing that shift in the back of your mind, the distinct sensation of _attention_ that you feel when a part of his consciousness peels away from the ship, restless, searching, scanning - alert, maybe, to the difference in your own mind - and you switch off the speakers on your husktop and close your eyes, breathing, bringing into focus - feeling the sudden vertigo of reorienting, in dream you're standing, and he's -

You throw yourself into Astris’ arms while the dreamspace is still half-raveled, shaking and clinging even though you’re being too abrupt and he is startled, still getting his bearings, phasing in and out of solidity. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you’re saying, the words coming out your mouth faster than you can actually think them through. “I - I think I chose the wrong way, I didn’t know what he was saying, what he was offering me, and I’m too selfish, I’m always too selfish -”

With the final flicker he gathers you in but it’s automatic, it isn’t really comforting, he doesn’t _know._ “Sollux, d -” He stops, his face half-buried in your hair. You hold your breath - “Your memory” - but he only pulls you in tighter - “What happened to your memory?”

“I haven’t, I haven’t lost anything, I remember too _much_ ,” you stammer, “I don’t know if I can explain everything -” and for once you’re the one being judicious, the one holding back floods of information, scared that the wrong thing let slip might devastate.

But what you are not being now is tenuous. Frightened and exhilarated, giddy with relief soured all over with guilt but you _know what you know_ and the only way to go is forward. You don’t know if you can tell him the right things, or if he’ll believe you, but that matters less because there are other secrets now, and other reserves against doubt.

“Too much -” he echoes - “Too much - it’s blurred - planets -” - his hold shifts, measuring - “You’ve changed, your... shoulders are - _no_ -” His hands grapple frantically at the back of your head, rush down your spine, and you have to _tell_ him.

“It’s okay, I - _I’m still real_ ,” you blurt out and it’s only when you do that you realize one of the things that’s changed for you: that you’re more sure of _him_ than you ever have been before, you’ve completely discarded the last shreds of doubt that cast him as a projection of your own mind. Both your hands still brace on his ribcage, as you draw back just enough to look him in the eye - “The timeline changed. It - there were things that were going to happen in the next half-sweep, to the - the machinery of the universe. Things that _did_ happen. I lived through it all and I remember - and I’m not the only one who remembers -”

You’re trying every tactic you know to dim or dull the memories he shouldn't hear, but there’s one that in your rush of apology you couldn’t help but let slip - that crawls bare and readable across your mental screen every time you hear him speak - 

“Your voices,” he whispers, and brushes fingertips across your temple as if that would help him draw the memory out, as if just listening to him hadn’t turned your thinkpan into a broken wireless tower broadcasting echoes of old grief. “You never told me.”

And then he pulls you back in and presses his cheek to yours and just _listens_ and you know what he’s listening for but can’t tell what he’s finding until - “But you don’t hear me anymore.”

“I never told you because that never happened. It happened and then it never happened. I would have started hearing you just days from now - but now I won’t, now I -”

It catches in your throat, a swallowed sob, and the words break into pieces on it, this roiling mess of emotions so violently felt and so contradictory that they push and shove at each other and make a hot blur of distress, the selfish grief that gnawed at you and the profound relief of knowing he finally had peace, would never be hurt again, and now both of them are _over_ and all you can say is “I’m sorry,” again, “I’m _sorry_.”

“Sollux, my own,” quiet and close in to your ear and how can Astris be so _calm_ , reaching up to rub near enough to one of your horns to comfort (but you don’t _want_ to be comforted, don’t even -) but not so close as to stifle - “I... gave up that right for you. Perigees ago.” Until that point you could keep the tears in, but you choke and shut your eyes hard and they still come spilling out and he keeps saying these things while you try to get a breath to speak, to protest - “I still wish for my life to end, but... I have no right to leave you. Or to mourn that I am still here and... yours.” Quiet, even calm - but so close in he can’t hide that his voice goes hoarse, can only keep you from seeing what the dampness on your neck is.

"No!" You're almost shouting, volume too loud for the proximity but if you try to control your voice now you won't be able to speak at all. "No, no, _don't_ , I'm not _worth_ that, not what they do to you, don't tell me I am, I don't think _anyone_ is -"

He has to bend you down a little, now, to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and your mind rebels against the tenderness even as your body leans into it and he murmurs into your hair, "You say that you were offered my life and did not have the strength to refuse it. Sollux, if I were offered death, I would have no right to accept - and yet I have no doubt that I would embrace it. Even though you... are worth so many millennia of pain to me that this ship would grind into dust before I could serve such a sentence."

You are bristling, still, your arms braced against him even as you cry helplessly into his collarbones. The discord drags a purr out of your throat, involuntary, loud anxious precarious balanced in that space between resisting and seeking comfort - but when he says _I would embrace it_ the tension starts to ebb out of you and you go quiet and still and soft and press into the warmth, breathing out hard. Your mind still blazes with guilt, but only for right now, not for everything that happened before or will happen after this, and your voice is small and hushed. “I didn’t even know what I was choosing, only that we were leaving behind the game,” you confess miserably. “But on some level I think I did. You got to die, before - _you got to die and I fucked it up._ ”

And Astris grasps at words, at your back through your shirt, mouths _no_ but doesn't say it as a shiver runs through him, warm breaths into your hair – "So weak for all our power, you and I..." he mumbles half-audibly to himself, and for what seems like a very long time he just looks at you as you drift and let tears fall. When he speaks, you force your watery eyes to focus and his cheeks and chin are just as sheened-over and blotchy as yours are. "I believe you. And I forgive you, always, as many times as you need me to. As many times as I hope you will forgive me, in the end." 

"In some ways I have already," you tell him softly, remembering echoes of his voice.

And for a moment he freezes tense against you as if you've shocked him, eyes teary and lowered and watching your mouth as you speak – gaze slipping down to the dingy green carpet, and in a rush, "I pity you so much, I want - to feel everything you lived through, while - " And he gives up and just kisses you, then, slick and urgent and tasting of salt.

You kiss him hungrily, half-disbelieving, still, distressed and comforted, purring and crying at once, guilty even somehow for how hard you’re pulling him to you, as if it wasn’t a manipulation of fate but the sheer force of your wanting that turned the clock back and dragged the wretched world back into being - you ready yourself to open your mind, and then realize - 

“I can’t,” you tell him, “I’m sorry, I - some of it, yes. But not all of it. Because it’s connected - it’s connected to something I can’t share.” You breathe in deep and shaky, try to compose yourself, hands tight on his shoulders - “I’m going to make you a promise now and it’s very large and I’m at the very beginning of it. I won’t leave you this way forever, Astris, I swear to you.”

His mind is so close against the edges of yours, stretching for nearly-given snapped-shut memories, that perception swims with a marbling of his emotions and yours when you make your promise, colors and edges and gratitude and guilt –

\- an almost-audible roar of something like angry helplessness, new or old you can't be sure -

And his mind goes dark and detaches and you're separate again, all in less than an eye's blink, and he hasn't stopped crying, didn't even while he kissed you; says, resonant to reverberating in your chest, "Then forgive me now, my love –" He's standing to his full height, for once, not echoing your habitual slouch – hands on your shoulders, slow-blinking searching you – "Because I do not have it in me to unconditionally say no. I believe that you mean this, and this is not the first time I have told you that if anyone could find a way through an impossibility, it would be you; and – oh, I can see how this might be _that_ way too–" It flickers through your mind, the fragile hope of avoiding conscription, at the surface again now that the world is no longer ending - And he stops, eyes luminous, on the edge of things forbidden, where you can only trust him to step back, and he does. "Just know in every moment of this what it would be for me if you sacrificed yourself in it and failed. That is what I ask in return. Don't condemn me to that lightly, _please_ , my light –" 

He watches for your answer as much as listens, all pent-in light and shared thirst for knowing and claws digging in where they rest, collarbones and shoulderblades –

“I won’t act rashly, nor lightly,” you say, a bare whisper, “I swear that, I -”

You can’t tell him that you already have the fragile stretching roots of a plan, a plan that if it kills you will kill him first. You’re going to need his help, and he might guess it in time from what you ask of him, but it will be in fragments, so that the pieces can’t be put together easily - and you’ve closed your thoughts and memories to him before but never so completely as this, building a blank wall in your mind where your strategies live, perfectly sealed and textureless, a wall he could break through if he tried, with his superior strength and amplification, but if he knows where it is he won’t trammel over it by accident - 

So much has to go behind that wall, Feferi’s identity and her face, and in a way you never felt guilty for your flushed dalliance you already feel guilty for having to hide her away - to pare away parts of the story, to edit it down to what you can safely tell. But then, he’s always needed to keep back certain things, and you’ve never held it against him, even when it’s caused you anguish.

“You wanted to know everything,” you say finally. “I can’t - too much of it is tied in. I’m not alone in this, though, I can tell you that - I have - a highly placed friend, more than a friend, and I know you’ve said I should seek pity in the waking world, but I won’t _blame_ you if you’re jealous -”

"Not jealous," he says, careful, word by word, but his hold on your shoulders stays just this side of too tight – "Concerned. If that's all you can tell me... that's a lot to hide. You – you aren't just with them for your plan. For me. They're good to you."

“I can tell you more than that, I just can’t _show_ you, can’t go that deep into it -” You breathe in and out, trying to discern where to start, where to go with it - “She’s - I wound up with her as much by accident as anything else, but I trust her with my life. She’s made good on that trust more than once. I," and the words catch in your mouth, this is the difficult part, "I trust her enough that I told her about us.” The fact that you’ve pailed Feferi seems small and incidental by comparison. 

"You don't know how much I wanted that for you," he says in a lit-up relieved rush, his smile genuine but visibly blinking back tears again; beneath it, you know, is _wanted to be that for you_ , equally true but not dulling the relief, and there's no hesitancy when he slides his palms off your shoulders and clasps both of your hands in his. "But – If you ever look at me and see only the burden of the immense promise you just made, _don't hide it from me_. Anyone could tell that you've changed, you've become more than you were, and if that makes you realize how much I'm static and limited – I would be happy just knowing that you have someone out there to rely on –"

“No, _oh_ , Astris, I just -” His hands are your lifeline, and his eyes something you never want to lose again, and you feel peeled open looking into them, but with an effort you don’t drop your gaze - “We haven’t quite settled out a quadrant yet, exactly, sometimes flushed and sometimes pale, it’s still in that nebulous kind of place, even counting things that haven’t technically happened - though I think it might be more pale, I - but that’s _not the point_ , not what matters; she’ll never replace Aradia either, she’s a different person; and the trust I have with her is founded on - on the fact that I _could_ tell her about you, that she’s willing to understand -” Language caves in on you, then, and a beat passes in silence. “How deep this goes,” you finally say. “Willing to see that and accept it, for some reason I don’t entirely understand.”

He shudders all over at _how deep this goes_ , his hands trembling in yours. But he's crookedly almost-smiling when he says, "Then she's either very kind or very crazy – it took _us_ long enough to accept this, and the unreal is sort of our purview..." And then, squeezing your hands tight, "But I still want you to show me what you can of what happened inside the code you made – unless it's too painful, I – want to feel like I lived it all through you, even if it was difficult and strange. Because it's – something outside of this – but also because it's _yours_ , and I want to understand –" He gets more forceful, more certain as he speaks, but then he breaks off, leans in and softly kisses your forehead – "And after, there's something I've wanted to do for you, and I think now is the time."

And his mind opens to yours, more tentative this time, less insistent, but the hunger for experience is still raw and close to the surface and he lifts his mouth from your forehead slowing into motionless waiting, careful as a held breath.

"Okay," you say, "I'll try," and you begin to sift through the memories, bringing them to the surface one by one -

Aradia’s ghost appearing outside your window - you wake on Prospit, and wander in visions - the moment when his voice joins the dying choir of Alternia, and you struggle to seek the dreamspace but cannot arrive there - 

\- wake, suddenly, to urgent messages - guide Feferi through her journey, manipulate the strange opulence of her seadweller hive - the back of your mind crying out for your love, that last narrow contact - but you know he wants - 

wants you to live, to save the life in front of you -

You know how to work through great pain, it is easy and practiced; was, somewhat, before he ever entered your mind, just from your own difficulties, so when the sound that isn’t a sound begins to build in your mind, a resonant frequency gradually shattering you to pieces, you

just

keep

going.

Astris takes you into his arms as you relive his death and your own, curls you up against him on the couch, your head under his chin and his whole body unnaturally still - only once failing to suppress a thin, tiny whine that you know is loss for a thing that never happened -

Then waking - 

The view of her face carefully excised, leaving only the sound of her voice, the transferred-in structure of your hive, the creatures - the planet - doing battle, back to back - (and Astris relaxes around you, content to settle into your narration) - 

\- but you haven't been careful enough, something about her silhouette as you follow her up the stairs of your hivestem, her hair, her horns -

“Wait, stop -” His claws hard against your arms - “I’m just going to assume for a minute that you can give me some alternate explanation for what I just saw. Because if that girl is - if you just showed me who I think you did, I think you know exactly what I am going to say. So - tell me I’m wrong.”

"Damn.” You let out your breath softly, rueful, chagrined - as much by your failure to realize where the tight lock should be set as by his outrage. “Audacious plans require audacious allies,” you tell him, by way of explanation. “And apparently better secrecy than I'm accustomed to keeping around you."

Walls ascending in his mind where before he was drinking in memory thrown-open yearning, and his eyes snap bright controlled from throwing off sparks but barely, lips retracting from his fangs but holding the snarl back from his voice when he speaks, low and almost-level and grasping at reason – “You’ve spent all this time marveling at how much we are alike - you’ve reevaluated everything about yourself again and again in light of me, I haven’t been able to stop that in you - you of all the trolls on Alternia should be most aware of the extent of what is passed down and unchangeable, or have you forgotten what your own moods can do to you? And yet you are about to gamble everything on the prospect of _her_ descendant being somehow different. Laws of nature don’t just stop working because you hope hard enough, or because you find Heiress beautiful, or because she saw fit to have a high-leveled psionic by her side to keep her from danger and was kind to you - we know what she is made of, and that should be enough. Do I even need to mention what else you may have inherited from me: the capacity to fall into the thrall of a young fanatic and follow them to your doom? And _this_ is who you have chosen to ally yourself to? I do not know which of _her_ powers are stolen and which are hers by birth, but if this Heiress has swayed your mind through that means -”

" _You_ spend so much time worrying that you’ll change me. That you have. And it's true." It's true in ways you don't mind him knowing, and other ways you're not so comfortable talking about, but the principle is there. "I'm conceding that because I want to remind you. FF is the same age as me. If I'm malleable, Feferi is, too. I don't know what... _she_ was like at that age. A lot less doomed, I'd guess, and a lot more isolated, but ... I'm analyzing at a great distance. Still. I wonder, did she have any checks on her power? Do you think she grew into it with anyone at her side who was unafraid to challenge her? To tell her when hoofbeastshit was hoofbeastshit? - _before_ she became the kind of troll who’d never be able to hear it?" You’ve seen just enough of the Condesce through his eyes to cast about at these guesses, and you're aware you're treading precarious ground - 

"No, I never thought that I would change your basic nature, but that I would bring the worst of it to the forefront. We are malleable... within limitations that we inherit. You and I saw when we dabbled with the polarity in your thinkpan what disaster you can court if you try to alter what is written into your flesh. What you're saying is that you think you can heal the Heiress with your pity and others' friendship. But even then – she faces the boredom and loneliness of an interminable lifespan and the grief of seeing everyone she cares for die, _including you._ She faces the avarice of having everything she wishes for the taking. Do you not wonder that _she_ went murderously mad with it? Do you not think the worst in your Heiress' nature will reemerge? I just – I thought you had escaped the part of my nature that compelled me to hang my fate on my belief in one troll, and what I thought I could do for him," he says, burned-through bitter, "I'm in no position to hide from you how deeply it pains me that I was wrong."

You're treading in dangerous territory now, you know you'll need him to hide from himself or even overwrite the things you're saying next, but enough of these words are obvious that he could guess them if you didn't speak them aloud - "Don't forget, I will only die before her if we _succeed_. If we fail - if we fail, Feferi will be dead, I will be conscripted, and the rulership will remain as it has for centuries, as I don't need to remind you - If we don't _try_ \- the same. Even if I saved myself - the rest would stay the same. She'd never have the chance to go mad," you point out. "Just as none of the others of her line have had that chance, unless they're in hiding at the bottom of the sea, _would you really this rather_ -"

"I don't have answers," he whispers, "Not anymore. I'm only throwing myself against the bars of this. I don't have enough information to be of that kind of help to you and I _can't_ be, you're right, it isn't safe –" Responding to unsaid things, watching your thoughts – "I just don't want that to be you, any sooner than it has to be. Maybe neither of us can know about the whole of this, but _her_ wrath is also tiny when she wants it to be, it's _personal_ , are you watching for it? If she tried to hurt you –"

You catch at his hand, squeeze it instinctively, your bloodpusher still racing hard with the anger that you don't feel any longer; whisper his name, spread an arm across his shoulders - You can't help but _admire_ him, paradoxically, for managing to be sharp-tongued enough that it knocks you out of remembering how fragile he is, even as your chest fills with a surge of pity and queasy regret - and your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, pressing up against things you can't begin to know how to speak aloud.

"She could snap me like a twig," you finally say, tired and honest and close enough to speak very softly. "And I'm drawn to that, and maybe I'm sick for it. And you can keep these words, when you lock the rest of it away - it's only a secret of the heart. With everything that happened in the game, exhausted and communications breaking down and surviving at each other's backs, _I told her even that_ \- and she went to remarkable lengths to live up to my trust. Maybe she's a monster, but she's made sure to be the safest _possible_ monster, even when I - handed myself to her on a platter, like I _wanted_ \- That's her identity," you say finally. "And it must be why she accepts this, too -"

"That... really isn't making me any less worried, love." Astris rubs at the back of your hand with his thumb, feeling new callouses – "I understand wanting... to let your watch down in pity, there's always an acceptance of danger in it – maybe moreso for us, our stakes are just higher, maybe that's how it has to be – It's just _who_ you – But by comparison to what you're used to, at least you found a monster who for the moment has herself in hand..." He shakes his head, rolls his shoulders under your arm, and you're tightening your grip around him trying for comfort. "I'm sorry, I keep sounding jealous and I'm _not_ , I'm –" His mind says _helpless_ , but his mouth isn't ready to form the word; he speaks around it tight and quiet – "You try not to remind me of the more painful impossibilities, but sometimes I still find myself choosing to feel them."

His words make you want to promise things you can’t promise, or ask for - “No, I don’t think you understand, I -” You feed him more images, more memories from the game, knowing he’ll have to censor them away but at least showing him, first, the way he wanted - “Don’t you see, I was being rash at the outset, I flung myself at her because part of me wanted destruction, I - If she’d wanted to break me to her use, it would have been all too easy. I was already -” _lost, bleeding inside_ \- “She could have taken me apart and I’d have been grateful for it, but instead she nudged me into caring a little more about whether I lived or died, because I wasn’t doing a great job of it. I was half mad from barely sleeping and from dealing with all the mayhem, and more than that from _losing_ you -” Your voice cracks and you just press your forehead into the crook of his neck, closed-eyed, warmth and darkness.

He makes that little escaped keening noise again and wraps you in gentle weight and warmth like a distant breath, pressing you to him more like a shared blanket than like holding arms. "Oh, I – I'm here now but I know that doesn't fix what you lost – I wish I could make you unhear the voices, I wish I could erase it all for you, the way I'm going to forget about your Heiress, I wish –"

“Don’t wish that, I - it’s probably good that I lived through that, for more reasons than one.” There’s more than one way your promise could go, but - you know you need to be strong, to be prepared for - to be willing to survive his absence, again in this new timeline, if you must.

And a part of his mind speaks directly to you that doesn't quite settle with the rest of what you know of him: all illogic and yearnings, and _I wish I could promise to stay for you, I do want to, when you're in my arms I want to, I know exactly what I would say – I want to but I can't_ – But what he says, finally, is, "Holding us back from destroying ourselves is a thankless, endless work. I think I understand now, as much as I ever will."


	2. my mind holds the key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're among the stars in overlay, without leaving here, his hands and voice simultaneously anchoring you to the couch in the familiar, contained space that you created together as he changes to speaking aloud. "We are so much beyond our minds and bodies by nature that they rebel from holding us..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is technically a smut chapter. But if you are a reader who typically skims or skips the smutty parts (as I know some are, and that's cool; it takes all kinds; no shaming in comments please!) I recommend reading this one more closely than most: it's not very explicit on the physical level, more on the order of deep communication and uncanny starship porn.

“Do you want the rest of it now?” you ask, and Astris nods, eyes locked on yours solemnity and caution, mistrustful of speech, and the narrowed conduit between you expands until the flow of memory can start again.

\- and you take him through memories of converging and circuitous timelines, through the unfolding intrigues of Prospit and Derse and the tangled conversation with your Denizen - through bitter feuds with Eridan and friendly ones with Karkat, through your awkwardness with Aradia and her steely distance towards you - skimming lightly over the times you pailed with Feferi because you think there are things he doesn’t want to see, shouldn’t have to expend the effort to hide away; still giving him enough emotional inflection to see the pale-flushed tangle of your alliance, the way she never tried to push you toward or away from fearing her, but kept you safe. Through the animosity and the teamwork, through the final puzzles, until you all stood together, prepared to win.

And the voices of your friends rang out on that hidden frequency in your mind, and something was wrong, very wrong. You remembered the choice afforded you by your Denizen: _your doom or the doom of your doom_ \- the hints at terrible prices to pay - and you turned the key in the lock and opened the _other_ door, not knowing what lay behind it, for once, discarded winning, discarded your precognition and its wretched comforts, chose the unknown thing because it couldn’t possibly be worse.

Woke up with two sets of memories and every Trollian window going off at once -

Astris is carding his fingers thoughtfully through your hair when you finish, dragging against your scalp as if trying to soothe a migraine – not like he doesn't believe you, but like he can't quite believe how well you're holding together with two timelines all stitched up in there, and after a while he says so, palming one of your outer horns, "It was a terrible choice either way, and you faced - you do face - awful tasks going forward, and I'm just..." He rubs light and distracted at the base of the horn for a while, the silence of carefully stringing words together – "I'll do what I can to be here for you, but know that – that there isn't a moment when I don't ache to do more." There's a movement in your mind, something slipping back across the connection where you shared the color and texture of the game. "I want to sustain you as much as you uplift me, I want to –" And he pauses, one hand still on your horn and the other at the neck of your shirt, strangely hesitant, and the awkwardness of it weighs against the boundaries of your thinkpan, his awareness of the differences in time and experiences and the distraught muddle of emotion you were when you materialized here –

"You've given me so much -" For a moment you've reached ahead of where words just stop, somewhere in your mind's attempt to recount to yourself everything he's been for you - "You've saved me from myself, taught me so much - you understand things no one else understands -" _and_ , you think out loud, unvoiced to save him the abashed moment of having to respond, _given me yourself, here, impossibly precious_ \- "No matter what words we use, no matter what I do or say outside of this place, no matter who and what else I pity: to me you're my matesprit, have been that in the depths of my soul since before I could even dare to speak the word pity to you for fear you'd mock me or turn away." And you run out of words again, and just lean into his touch, sharing perceptions again, trying to show him this time a flicker of how it feels when he looks at you with such adoration, to be given such an impossible gift, fortunate edging into dizzy disbelief.

 _You, the centuries and then you_ – He's responding entirely inside your head, his lips on your temple and his fingers dappling at new muscle in your shoulders, delicate and careful – _I cried out to you not knowing that you lived, I craved your pity when I was dim and dwindling and couldn't have thought what pity was to want it – Just – let me lay it here before you, what you are to me, let me show you_ – 

And with no warning that built-up moving thing is overflowing from his mind to yours, wonder like starlight, wonder that is starlight, a hot flood of stars and a cold hiss of void and emotions that he can't untangle from substance and vision that overlay above and within senses that you can't name and know only from these brushings against the parts of his mind where everything merges – But it's nothing like the last time he brought you to this place. You're among the stars in overlay, without leaving here, his hands and voice simultaneously anchoring you to the couch in the familiar, contained space that you created together as he changes to speaking aloud. "We are so much beyond our minds and bodies by nature that they rebel from holding us... _This_ is what I can do for you, lift you out of it all, now when you've been through so much – there's a part of myself that I can only give you here, where your sense of place can bounce off galaxies – can I –" Palms stroking down your arms, down your sides, purring under speech, rumbling at once resonant-emotive through your mind full of vastness and warmly content against your back.

"Yes," softly murmuring into his collarbone, "oh, yes, I -" and you're hanging onto him, both hands clutching at his waist - braced against the dizzying vision, against phantom motion and indescribable wisps of sensation and it's almost too much and you didn't realize how much you needed to - needed this - to be loosed of the cramped whirlwind of your own head - but it's not a mindless thing, either, it's fantastically intricate - light and motion at once perceived as feelings and described in mathematics, no, those aren't separate layers, information _is_ a feeling - and it goes in alongside the feeling of his dream-fingers rubbing against you, the rise and fall of his chest, thinking in _words_ is more and more difficult and you make a small sound against his throat - 

The pit of your stomach prickles with weightlessness, not like flying on Alternia but like being cut free of the planet's pull altogether, like falling, and you feel that you are tangling, tumbling with him at a standstill, vertigo without accompanying motion, and your surroundings shimmer – But his hands cradle and pet and slip up your spine under your shirt and down the neckline to reach at your shoulderblades and he's thinking at you _There's more than this – Open to it, it's from me, it's all right, I have you_ – 

And there's a shiver all along your bare arms, the back of your neck, the span where your shirt is rucked up around his wrist – where your skin is bared to the cosmos you start to feel it, and more where his hands have touched, a sense that is a non-sense – Like starlight that has traversed emptiness hundreds of sweeps to you is suddenly embedded into your skin, each speckle of it tiny and distinct and each a hue within white that belongs only to itself. It's a construction from psionic sight, tracing the shape of rooms and bodies, it's like something you've done, but this – 

It's like it's poured over you as he gently pulls your shirt off altogether, it's so closely knit into your body, so accustomed and yet so expansive that it's like seeing with your skin, and he thinks _It seeps into you, doesn't it, it's so beautiful_ , the firmament at once unfolding boundless on all sides and pressing in like a mist condensing into droplets without number, strangely like an infinity of tiny kisses, and his lips on yours one central kiss with all else in its orbit, and you're aware that there are other sensations from the hull that he isn't feeding you, curled away behind walls somewhere in his mind; that the pain you usually carry for him is locked somewhere further away than you've ever seen; aware of his steadying hands on your waist, but they're backgrounded, dim by comparison. 

Bright prickles along every inch of you, like the way Astris has held you in an embrace of psionic force except that in some other way it’s exactly _nothing_ like being held, freefall keeps you exhilarated-breathless and you only remember your hands when you know they’re clinging tighter to his hips, digging in - and each pinpoint of light too unique to swirl together or tune out, so much _information_ through your skin, you can _feel color_ and the faint interlacing of rhythms like music - you gasp against his mouth at once very close and very far away -

He keens a little at the clinging press of your hands and the sound comes from behind and around you (and in front of you, there and directed, where part of you is still awake on the couch and solid and warm and ready to retreat to, if you need –) and when you open your eyes you see him twice, there and here, and here strange and amplified – and like you could see through him if you tried, and you can, you can see – how his skin goes dark to drink in the light – you see what he can't help sharing with you, invisible lines vibrating through dim reaches, dipping into wells in the way the universe curves, all converging into his body here, into his eyes that are more than eyes...

You can see the way his skin lights up with close-gathered points of sensing and attention everywhere it touches yours, measure his pulse to the merest sliver of a second as it speeds, and he knows it, flushes burning against your face, laid open in embarrassment at the sheer detail you're seeing but not trying to hide it – and his voice inside your head is awed and breathy-vulnerable and almost words without a voice at all and saying _Would you believe that I see this reflected – all of this – every time I look at you –_ and your cheeks go hot with self-consciousness, some part of you wants to curl away small and uncertain, but everything is enormous and you’re both larger and smaller than you ever imagined being. And you’re pulled in, fascinated, so rarely does he let you see the way his dream-body coheres, meshes from force to form, and - the sense of engineering and structure and perfection and precision hits you right in the thinkpan, even as the far-off animal part of you moans a confused _oh_ and presses to him for warmth, some soothing counterpoint still against the dancing points of radiance and the translucent complexity of him -

And in his thrown-open mind you read that this is just as muddled for him as it is for you, as much as this is more his element, the transcendent and the corporeal and their interweaving – the reacting to your reaching and mewling, wanting to press and rub pleasure into your body as it is now, there in his arms still small and smooth and comprehensible – but wanting even more to transmute and elevate and his hands are smoothing down your sides, fingers brushing and circling around your grubscars and you don't know when you've been fed all this sensitivity, only that his hands have become their own colored maps of temperature and pressure and digits and precision. You know his mouth on your neck in licks and feather-kisses that pass into you blended with the light, so that each touch of lips reads sunburst and gauzy nebula, close-in little touches and vast distant smears of galaxy and glow.

He just keeps peeling away construction and illusion, offering you glimpses and layers and veins inside him that are light, that are psionics and electricity, until you resonate with the rushing away of the great strobing pulses that he throws exploratory off into the dark and still with the sweeps he waits for echoes – And he holds you so close, touching and coaxing and infusing, that you feel the return of ancient light as if it was yours and came back to you –

And you never felt, never knew, never could have imagined that there would be this _much_ , that the universe is so soaked with his sensory power now that you touch the dead cinders of long-dark first stars in the cold distance with one hand and the hot onrushing edge of the expansion of everything with the other – and all between your outstretched fingertips must be you, and you are so vast and spread so thin and wrapped around him so tight, all as you are skin to skin and red light to blue, all as he tangles in, legs and horns and curling brightness, and moans long and catching on itself and washing over you all desire in its strained-down core – 

You want him and everything that entails, and you're aware in some distant analytical stratum of yourself that that is what he's giving you, and it's _glorious_ , but somehow more _difficult_ than the worst of his pain because there's nothing to brace against, nowhere to hide and nothing to hide _from_. You're blown open and it's engulfing, overwhelming, but you don't ever want it to stop - these sensations aren't, they don't belong to the shape of your body, but they have nowhere else to _go_ \- shuddering and crying out and - too _much_ , this is too much - (reality is / you are) a paradox puzzle, inside-out and glowing-enfolding bright and impossible and perfect, even his lips on your neck deconstructed ruthless into light-halo and nerve impulse, and your hands grasp compulsive frightened of losing him but he's never been more _here_ \- and he's showing you _how_ he's here, folding serpentine arcs by which he crosses the distance.

 _Always with you_ , his mind is whispering to yours, misplaced shards of concepts and thoughts that arc back on themselves like orbits, _No matter what happens, always, always yours – all of this – curled up in your every cell_ – and here where the boundary between intention and possibility crumples to meaningless and the most intricate calculations yield trajectories that curve parabolic-simple - not sexual except that it _is_. His thoughts are like incantations and his power crashes cascadic over you and through your body, tiny and physical-real and tumbling like a leaf in a river current - the sounds you're making in your own throat are like radio transmissions from somewhere further away still, little Sollux self sweat-moist and keening pressed up against Astris, warm skin and blinding abstractions looped through you looped through space-time through the base of your spine and even with your eyes pressed tight you see _everything_ and it's maddening and perfect and floods over you, grounds back into you and you howl - shudder and shake and rock and you don't even know what your body is doing any more only that you're feeling so much that you're simultaneously dwindled to a point and expanded beyond belief. 

The space where you are caught up alters, hisses like a drawing-in of breath – and all through you and far away and against your skin this whole place – or his sense of it – everything, stars and psionic waymarks and bluing dark all ripple and flicker and shudder around you and your mind swirls with mangled diffuse chords and torn-apart words in languages you don't understand, aren't sure exist, but all so soaked with adoration that their meaning is unambiguous and heavy-laden into them, gasped and stammered and seeping in. Pleasure pushes hard and turbulent through every vertebra and crashes through every nerve-ending in your nook, crashes you back to _here_ where you're making loud gasping inarticulate noises into his shoulder and he’s sobbing out the end of a moan that sounds like heartbreak and your name, brings you back even though you've never left - back and down to ringing silence, the light of galaxies blurring to spots behind your eyelids.

His clinging has gone to stroking before your eyes can open, hands shaky-gentle in your hair and down your back, and when you look he's all soft-painted still-flushed moonstruck _smiling_ , mouth open and breath unsteady and eyes all blown wide and taking you in (you feel a strange certainty that if you looked too deeply into them you might see starfields, or gridlines –) Power sparks from their corners and from his horns, careful to avoid scorching you but still imperfectly held into containment here, and he blinks and works his tongue over his lips and finally gives up and asks you without speaking, _Hey – hey, love, are you OK – do you need_ –

For a moment you don't want to break from this endlessness, not yet, so you just let him in, into amazement and sated contentment and drifting, and the glimmers of confusion that are going to be questions when you let them out, when the clamor of your own mind returns, but right now for just a little while it's good to let go of language and just focus on breathing and the feel of his hands. And he sighs into a reassured purr, goes all unfolded-relaxed and drifts with you, his fingers tracing slow arcs and whorls like maps onto your skin.

But when you resurface it's into questions and uncertainties, your mind stirring into a host of restless thoughts, about logistics and your own longings that are too complex to articulate and the uncomfortable sense of yourself as tiny against vastness, a cramped enclosure for mental noise, an awkward ill-fitting speck against the backdrop of everything he shared with you - "So _much_ ," you breathe. "Thank you -" and you're aware that your voice falters, abashed, the same wrigglerish shyness you used to exhibit when the terrible parts of his existence slipped through, only this was wonderful, and you don't know why you feel like you're going to cry.

"Whenever you need it," his voice just as swallowed-up small and thready-tired as you feel, now that he is speaking with it. You can't help drifting through parts of his mind that rebel even against vastness and glory as poisoned by his imprisonment; that the euphoric outstretching of it is still shot through with shame for him and that opening it to you was a work of will and pain as much as love. Somehow seeing that distress mirrored in him soothes you, answers the part of you that feels guilty and terrified for how much you want - how much you don’t understand wanting - 

Still, he's tracing your shared sign across your shoulderblades, breath held and hitching in even further when he senses the edge of tears in you, and he whispers, "Oh – oh, my light, it's –" (A wash from his mind of old, old overwhelmed tears, of opening eyes and breathless incomprehension and loneliness like stillness after wind –) "I know, I know – but you'll be all right, _you_ will, some just – vanish into it, forget everything, but not us, we dive under it all, to what –" (Calculations and equations, elegant laws and inscrutable constants; you saw it all and yet you saw just the start –) "- To what gives it form, that's our hatchright, you've said so yourself, we just keep reaching and wanting and trying to understand –" _We know the worth and rarity of anything that remains undiminished in beauty and mystery for the knowing_ , the thought dropped whole-cloth into your mind as he flushes and glows and his fingers dig into your back and he has to stop and look away from you, eyes faraway-unfocused – 

\- and from the babble and din of half-formed thoughts you manage, “Everything I have to share with you is so - tiny and biological, I - I know you _want_ that but -” but it seems insignificant by comparison right now, a crude and wrigglerish gift to lay in front of everything he is, and you’re uncomfortably aware you’ve soaked your jeans, that here and now in physical overlay there’s a difference in kind, that the release you felt blazing through him barely touched the outlines of his dream body at all while you sit here at the doorstep of his presence wet and chafed and awkward, and being so animal in this feels like an intrusion, to him or maybe to yourself.

That snaps him out of his moment of abashed distance, his gaze returning to you as if you'd been too bright to look at for a moment, and he grins small and reassuringly smug, "Well, _yeah_ , I want that, have you been too busy conspiring since you came back to look in a mirror?" Astris pinches at your shoulder and laughs at your surprised shiver, but then quiets, suddenly indecisive, even as you start chuckling giddy-nervous. "As much as it doesn't make any damn sense for you to write yourself off as merely physical – you made this space with your _mind_ , you're _continually_ making it – Don't think I'll ever let you forget for a moment that _these_ –" He makes a show of bringing a hand to your face and stroking down your nose with four fingers, swiping a thumb over your mouth, while the other hand shifts and rubs circles into your back – "Are _yours_ , and how immense that gift is to me and... I didn't tell you the first time because I wasn't sure, but it happened again just now, just before I took you up – I felt something _there_. As if a muscle twitched – it felt like the inside of my wrist somewhere – I'll have to stop it from happening again, they can't know, but – oh, _Sollux_ –" His hand wraps around your chin and stills there and he just stares at your face and his own fingertips like he's on the verge of being pulled apart, distraught and overjoyed.

Openmouthed and silent and staring, you reach up and stroke his fingers - "Wow," you say, a barely-voiced breath, "I -" You swallow then, close your hand over his, uselessly protective - "You're so beautiful and so remarkable and I'm _afraid_ for you -"

He flinches a little at your praise and more at your fear, that too-common look like he wants to argue with your view of him but can't stand to spend what time you have together retreading that ground – "I'll be all right, I've been hiding something so much more important for a sweep now–" He threads his fingers through yours and clings with them, his other hand going to push your hair back from your forehead, slow, comforting strokes – but still he's staring, hesitant and conflicted – "You would tell me if you thought I was imagining it? If you think I'm – losing touch with things – I _want_ you to tell me."

You breathe out softly, leaning into his hands. "I - I know mostly what we do here doesn't reach you physically, but I also know I can reach out and find you, that there's a power ratio and some of it's mine. So I'd be more surprised honestly if there were _no_ effect - I mean, god knows you do enough to me," and you laugh helplessly and gesture toward your lap, "and a lot of it comes through into my waking life, I just - oh, Astris, be _careful_ , I -" Trying to name your fears has no place in this moment, you don't want to break the stillness and wonder to cast about in the horrors he's lived, still lives, when he's not here with you, or in the part of him that's not ever here -

"After all the hurt you've taken for me, I can do this, I can learn some measure of healing -" and Astris is still shakily smiling and the smile is ruddy-warm in his voice, upturned, he folds you in reaching with a surrounding fuzz of power, holding you to him so tightly your ribs ache, you breathe light this close to him, breathe enthralled pity – but this close you also see his throat move with tense swallowing, hear his breath slowing as he dims his light until the lines of his face come clear, and he answers your unspoken fear in a scraping-low whisper, "I'll endure, I _have_ endured." And if that claim is shame and bitterness for him, an opening into chasms and dark in your connection to him, a tear in the tapestry of stars in their millions that still wheel before your eyes if you let yourself pull that link close – then beneath the dark is still the warmth of his trust and the way he could begin to form to your promise as to your hands, the way he already has. _I'll wait for you_ , his mind speaks to you in layers beneath his voice – _I've waited for you, I'll wait._


	3. I'm setting you in motion and opening your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first thing you do when you meet Feferi (for the first time, again) is kiss her._
> 
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> 
> _"You're a lot less dead this time," she says, grinning._

==>Sollux: Plan.

The landscape of futures stretches out before you, and in some of them you live for a very long time. You feel so many different things about that, you can't hold them all in your head at once. It makes you dizzy and you give up trying, and turn your attention to easier thoughts, like engineering governmental overthrow. 

You're not cocky or foolhardy enough to think you can do this by yourself. And yet there are certain parts of it that only you can do; others that need to be delegated - you need to hold the strings, you need to mastermind it, you're frightened that they'll believe you to a point and then stop, pull the floor-covering out from under you, and that's a possibility too - you feel it in the fate-lines and it scares you. 

You are divided, as usual, one half a piece being moved upon the chessboard and the other the chess player, watching from outside.

Small things first: you hack into KK's machine and delete the viruses you've sent him; delete your own copies, too, even though you suspect the Mobius Double Reacharound Virus would no longer actually work the same way. Still, the fresh chance given you by the cancelled session is not something you're going to risk wasting.

Then you contact NP.

AC: :33 < im sorry i missed your message sollux, i was asl33p!   
AC: :33 < that final battle was expawsting!   
AC: :33 < what do you n33d?   
TA: 2orry np.   
TA: ii'm ju2t lookiing for 2omewhere two meet up wiith ff, preferably not iin plaiin viiew of all alterniia.   
TA: and ii thought you miight have 2ome iidea.   
AC: :33 < ooooh   
AC: :33 < *ac scampurrs off to update her shipping wall, which has b33n pawfully neglected!*   
TA: np.   
TA: np waiit.   
AC: :33 < *ac swishes her tail impatiently!*   
TA: 2orry, we don't have a ton of tiime.   
TA: iit ha2 two do wiith kk.   
AC: :33 <   
AC: :33 < *ac stalks around her cave d33p in thought*   
AC: :33 < i know a place where no one will s33 :))   
AC: :33 < but bring your eye lasers and tell ff to bring her fork, its mountain roarbeast whelping season!

 

~~~

The first thing you do when you meet Feferi (for the first time, again) is kiss her. 

"You're a lot less dead this time," she says, grinning. 

"Ehehe, thanks, I guess."

"You don't lisp any less, though."

The clearing near Nepeta's hive is a place where Feferi has never been before, and neither have you; there may be a lot of holes in Imperial surveillance, but there's no such thing as being too careful. "And what were you expecting?" 

"You," she says simply, and throws her arms around your neck. You're suddenly conscious of the breadth of her frame, the way her fingers spread on the back of your neck, cool and strong and foretelling potential; you haven't much taller to grow - even if you didn't know from the shape and size of Astris' dream-projection what your final height would be, you know the average growth statistics of your hemotype, know you're likely to go into season for the first time within a sweep from now and reach final bone length within a sweep after that. There _are_ no public statistics about Tyrian growth patterns, just ED's hemotype on down, but you know from vids of the Condesce that Feferi will grow into a very large troll indeed, eventually, slowly. 

Right now her head fits below your chin when she bends it forward to press her face to your chest, hair still damp from the swim upriver, and your frantic thoughts fade out into cool stillness, and you find that despite yourself you're smiling, gently, vaguely, closing your eyes and breathing into a near-silent purr. 

But even in your relaxation, you take care not to lose the lock on the back of your head - so used to letting Astris ride along when he can that closing that door to him seems a cruelty. And yet it's absolutely necessary. Something under the surface of your consciousness is telling you that this is only one of many small things you will have to be callous about before this is over. You're not certain whether it's your prophetic sense or just plain common sense.

Feferi pulls away and look you in the eye. "Whale?" she says; and you take a deep breath and trip forward into a stream of ideas for how to bring down the Empress. 

You've actually been thinking about the practicalities for quite some time, compartmentalizing, dividing it off into a carefully abstracted section of your thinkpan. It's evidence of how well-matched you are with FF that she can keep up with you while you blurt out your conclusions in the absence of buried context - or maybe she just catches the context without your saying it outright. But she agrees with you on most things. That you'll need support from offplanet; that you'll need to have _infrastructure_ laid out; that you're uniquely positioned to try, between her bloodline and your connection to Astris and your knack for accessing and manipulating information; that this is going to take a while but you need to start right away -

There's a rustle in the underbrush, and before you know it NP's appeared with cups of tea in both her gloved hands, and you thank her quietly but do a double-take. How long has she been listening? But you do trust her, for some reason that's hard to describe: maybe her lack of involvement with the FLARP meltdown - maybe her inherent resistance to social conventions. It's why you let her offer up her hive as a meeting place, without knowing the full story.

And yet something breaks down here, and you lose your train of thought and stammer irritably for a minute at FF until a loud hissing and the crunch of some woodland creature's snapping neck in the distance tells you NP is otherwise occupied. Then - 

"It's - Feferi, _we_ have nothing to lose," you say suddenly. "You and me and KK - we're walking dead either way. But people like her - a tail isn't a cullable mutation, it isn't even considered a _defect_ unless she wanted an acting career, she could reach Ascension age and make it through pailing year without a missed beat and do anything she _wanted_ and what are we _doing_ -"

"Shooooosh," she's saying and her claws draw down the back or your scalp careful-tingly and your bloodpusher runs a little less hammery - 

"- with the lives of our friends," you finish, slow and plaintive.

"We're setting fins right," she says, quietly, and her eyes glimmer in the moonlight. "We're - whale, _I'm_ at least - learning to rule. You," she says, and presses the pad of one finger to the center of your forehead, "are using that clever thinkpan of yours to figure out all the complications and help me get through them. And you're helping your ancestor." 

And it's true, but it's also - "I can't add it up in my head," you say miserably, "not _all_ of the contingencies, or rather I can, but it adds up too many different ways - FF, what if we're _wrong_ , are we leading everyone to a traitor's death?"

"Terezi tells me the law is clear on this point," Feferi says, and you wonder how long she's been making these connections - "Kelping me ascend to the throne my hatchright is not treasonous. Everyfin we do to reach that goal is legal after the fact, so long as I _win_." Her voice is emphatic, and somehow the certainty doesn't sound unrealistic, coming from her. 

"But if we don't -"

"Then we're fucked," she says cheerfully, "but what else is new? And Nepeta, do you think I cod stop her from following if I tried? Cod I stop _any_ one of our friends?"

"You could do anything," you answer immediately, and then you realize you're making her point for her. Half-defeated, you continue, "Sure, I can point to individuals this would help, but I also feel like I'm being incredibly shellfish." After all, one of those individuals is you. 

And then your palmtop buzzes, suddenly, multiple times in a row. There should be no service out here, and you'd shut off its connection, and for a paranoid heart-pounding moment you think they've found you - until - 

AA: y0u are n0t the selfish 0ne s0llux   
AA: every0ne wh0 tried this bef0re l0st f0r selfish reas0ns   
AA: they put self-preservati0n in fr0nt 0f the l0nger view   
AA: s0me 0f them did   
AA: their c0mrades died because 0f their aband0nment

 

Instead of saying anything out loud you just show Feferi the screen, your 'pusher hammering now for different reasons. She nods, silently giving you permission to pay attention to the device, and you set down the empty teacup on the ground and tap a message back. 

TA: aa are you here riight now?

AA: yes in a manner 0f speaking but that is n0t relevant   
AA: there are imp0rtant things i need t0 tell y0u   
AA: t0night and 0ther times

TA: tell me.   
TA: about the one2 who lo2t.

AA: i can 0nly speak t0 the 0nes wh0 died   
AA: s0me 0f them gave up and lived 0n   
AA: they were c0wards

A pause, and you start typing, inquiring further, before the palmtop buzzes again.

AA: they say   
AA: i mean the 0nes wh0 died 0f c0urse   
AA: they say y0u can always save y0ur 0wn hide   
AA: that the dr0nes c0me t0 make it s0 y0u have t0 ch00se

You're showing Feferi silently - as if speaking out loud would disrupt the torrent of messages, shoulder to shoulder with the flickering screen in hand.

AA: als0 that is why the imperial bureaucracy makes y0u fill 0ut f0rms all sweep   
AA: it is a diversi0n t0 0ccupy y0ur time

You'd always wondered why they stuck juveniles with massive piles of tricky useless data entry to qualify for basic training, if the need for military personnel was so great. It hadn't seemed logical.

TA: aa, who ii2 telliing you all thii2?   
TA: ii mean, ii know iit'2 gho2t2.   
TA: but ii2 iit any rebelliion ii've heard of, or what?

As soon as you send the message you realize you haven't heard of that many rebellions. Even with your information access being several layers deeper than it technically _should_ be, you've only managed to dig up a few relatively famous ones from rumors: the existence of the Signless and what he did has been swept as far under the table as it's possible to push something that large, and between then and now there was only the incident with the Summoner - which you also suspect must have been larger than it looks from anything you can find out. 

AA: they never hear their names sp0ken any m0re   
AA: and they kn0w 0f 0lder generati0ns wh0 they can hear and i cann0t

TA: how many troll2 ii2 thii2, are we talkiing liike two group2, ten, twenty?

AA: there is always a new attempt as s00n as the last has been f0rg0tten   
AA: 0r whenever an heiress emerges and attempts the thr0ne   
AA: m0st 0f them have fallen quickly and quietly   
AA: but the dead remember

Though you're accustomed to Aradia being spooky, though you were already used to it even before she died, that _still_ gives you shivers down your spine.

TA: ...keep talkiing.

Feferi puts her arm around you and watches as lines of text appear on the screen. There's no reason to keep silent that you know of; but nonetheless she mouths _tell her thank you_ , and you do. Aradia doesn't react, just keeps flooding you with messages. So many stories - and you have the feeling this is just the tip of the iceberg, with uncountable dead revolutionaries frozen underneath the surface.

Neither of you hears NP circling back toward the clearing, but by that time the messages from AA have faded from a flow of story-scraps to _yes_ and _n0_ responses to questions, and you and FF have broken the silence to whisper guesses and interpretations and, maybe, the beginnings of a plan.

NP has more tea but also the news that it might be "purrspicacious" (FF smiles, you wince) of you to retreat to her hive, since she's picked up the tracks of hill-dwelling roarbeasts nearby and you might have eye lasers but they hunt in packs. She leads the way as silently as she arrived, the path to her hive winding through undergrowth and twisting around fallen trees, more of an antlerbeast-track than a trail. The hive itself is half-cave and completely impossible to spot from the air – circling this place in flight when you were first looking for the meeting point was like finding the proverbial sewing-stick in the haystack – and judging by the size of NP's lusus greeting you outside the hiveportal you won't have a problem with marauding roarbeasts here.

She greets Pounce with a whole-body flinging motion that ends up being a hug, and leads you through the portal, and then you freak the fuck out.

There's somebody here waiting. _There's somebody here_. Your defensive instincts kick in and you're crackling with a shield of sparks before you recognize Equius Zahhak. Now you have to look nonchalant while bristling with psionic defenses. Real smooth, Sollux. Real smooth. 

"Equius!" Feferi says and smiles warmly, not managing to conceal her surprise but turning it into cheerful excitement. "It's an unexpected pleasure." She saves you the trouble of more than a muttered _hello_ , and you squeeze at her hand gratefully, because if words were going to come out of your mouth right now they would not be calm ones.

Nepeta... doesn't look surprised. Nepeta is crossing the room over to her moirail with a downright triumphant look on her face, and your stomach drops. You're not sure what she has in mind and you were _going_ to fully fill her in on the plan next but now you're unsure of the territory - and Equius seems pretty unsure, too. His expressions, transparent as always, go from friendly recognition toward Feferi to a struck-frozen discomfort, and you remember it's also his first time seeing her outside the game, and he's a loyalist to Empire dogmatism more than anyone you know, even more than Karkat.

EQ stands up so suddenly and sharply that the pile of furs and hides he was sitting on slides apart, even as Nepeta says, "You know our furrends!" cheerfully, as if nothing is happening - 

He is not done growing, and already quite tall, and his muscles quiver tense and alert and perspiration beads on his forehead, his face looking like he's going to either bare his teeth and growl or flee the cave. But instead he bows stiffly. "Heiress," he says.

Nepeta approaches with what you can only describe as a kind of subdued leap and stretches up on her toes to tap her moirail's shoulder with her claws, starting to hiss, "Be _nice_ ," but -

Feferi squeezes your fingers back, then lets go and steps closer. "You know what that means," she says, looking Equius in the eye. 

"Yes, I do," Equius says, tight like a strung wire. And you realize that if you ever for a moment thought he wouldn't reach a rapid and obvious conclusion, whether or not Nepeta passed your hints along to him, you were being naive; Equius is no fool. A sweaty arrogant jerk, and overly attached to his notions of aristocracy, but not inobservant. You scowl across the room at Nepeta, not so sure of her own common sense. Pale feelings aren't supposed to muddle up your thinkpan, but romance is complicated and you're pretty sure it doesn't always go the way it's taught in schoolfeeds, to put it mildly. He could turn you all in - well, he could _try_. You realize you're clenching a fist at your side when you realize you've stopped; Feferi's reaching behind herself surreptitiously, brushing her fingers against your arm, soothing and warning at once. 

"Will you stand with me?" Feferi asks him, deceptively light and whimsical, like she's asking for a dance at some gala in the movies.

"I stand with Alternia," he says. "Your challenge will tell, when it comes to that." He's doing his best to sound diffident, but it comes off oddly guilty.

"You're smart," she says. "You're a smart troll and you know your fishtory. Now, please, if you can, look me in the eye and tell me that by any reach of the imagination, by any stretch of probability, the Condesce doesn't glubbing cheat _every single time_."

"Tradition says the fight should be fair, but the Empurress has the whole Empire fighting for her!" Nepeta interjects, latched onto Equius' side like a tree-climbing squeakbeast. "Fefurry is just one troll with a fork by herself –" She's eyeing Feferi brazenly, none of Equius' diffidence, sizing her up as if for a fight – "Who will stand with her if not her furrends?"

But Equius is staring at Feferi silently, mouth slanted sideways as if to say _that's not the point_. You get the sense that it is, and it isn't; there's some context here standing in the air between the neurotic thinkpan in that oversized cranial casing and FF's uncannily advanced social skills, and you're not sure you care what it is, so much as you'd really like to know how it's going to impact your long-term survival. 

"What do you bereef?" she asks him.

"What are you fighting for, Heiress?" Equius asks, and you know there are a thousand answers she could give and speak truly, and most of them would not satisfy him.

"For the _right_ to do this by the book," FF says at once. "Schools of other reasons too, but that's as true as any. I might meet my end, but I won't go to it on less than honorable terms! I am the one troll who can possibly challenge Her Condescension on still waters. No matter who holds the throne, no matter who wins in the end, it _is_ my right." _Damn_ she's good. "And I will hake that right by force, if I must," she continues, and her voice goes quieter. "Because it is also my duty. To my friends and to my people and to Alternia. To you, here and now, efin if you swim against this current." She doesn't say _although then I'd have to kill you_ ; just lets it stand in the air, obvious, unspoken for the sake of dignity, the readied stillness of her trident hand bearing the culling fork speaking for her – sometimes the weapon seems almost comically larger than she is, but right now Feferi herself fills the room and she holds the double trident as if its symbolism weighed more than its metal.

He takes a step closer, looming like he's going to question her or worse, and you brace automatically, this time managing to keep your shielding near-invisible – Nepeta drops from his side to watch the proceedings, one hand in her coat pocket that you're sure is on the specibus key of her sylladex but you've fought by her side in the game and she looks more like she's ready to intervene but doesn't think she'll _need_ to, huge eyes and a thin focused smile – and then he drops his head. One more step forward, and very slowly then he goes to one knee. "Then you stand above me," he says, an oddly literal figurative sentence. 

"Yes, and so does the Condesce," Feferi points out, sharply, testing.

"No further above," Equius admits, word by word deliberate like bracing himself to shoulder a weight. "You do not wear the crown yet, but you _are_ my Empress. By hatchright at the very least, until you succeed or foa... fail." It's a decision. And you're none too impressed with the hierarchy and order that governs his life, but you're also realizing gradually that the way Feferi made him justify it is going to keep him more solidly on her side than if she'd wheedled and cajoled. And at least although he's kneeling he doesn't _cringe_ ; even in the game Equius never stopped acting like he labored under some immense and mostly made up burden of class dignity, but the act admittedly became marginally less of a cringefest whenever he actually did have an important and dangerous job to do.

"We already did the impawssible together," Nepeta chimes in, ducking her head in a quick half-bow that doesn't conceal her fanged grin of excitement – "I'm not letting my meowrail do it again without me!" Equius eyes her sidelong, affects a look of chagrin, and pushes at the back of her knee with his large hand until she goes into a kneeling position alongside him.

"I will do my best to justify your loyalty." Feferi smiles at Nepeta, then reaches out her hand and touches the tip of Equius' unbroken horn, and there's something weirdly ceremonious about it; you're never sure you understand this kind of thing, a communication highblood to highblood that's not quite ritual and not quite _not_.

"Justified or not," he says, voice rough, "you are right. I cannot support the Empire as I believe in it without supporting your bid."

"And if that means hiding in the shadows? If it means conch-eeling our ends? If it means breaking awave from our roles in the hemospectrum?"

"Then I will accept that as the cost of loyalty and loyally serve you for the rest of my life." It seems an extreme statement, but you realize it's not emotional hyperbole; he's just baldly stating the possible outcomes. Either Feferi will be Empress, or he will be culled in the attempt along with the rest of you.

"No pressure," you mutter under your breath. Feferi ignores you. She starts to say something and you can't quite make it out - no, you can't and you can, it's like a whisper that turns melodious at the edges and there are pieces of Old Alternian that you recognize, just out of reach, like and unlike. This is something like the voice she uses with Gl'bgolyb, you know this without asking, but it's also an actual sentence and Equius seems to be understanding it and you _don't_ think you're understanding it but you know what the words _feel_ like they mean and the paradox makes your head hurt.

 _I accept your oath_ , she's saying. You don't understand what's going on. No, that's not true; you do, and you want to pretend you don't, at least for a moment, because the sudden determination and devotion Feferi has catalyzed is something you can't _hide_ from - and it won't be the last time. The last part of you that believed you were preparing for Ascension like a regular schmo is dissolving away. This is your life from here on out.

~~~

After that business with Nepeta and Equius, you're inclined to code up some Trollian updates for everyone - both to add an extra layer of security and to serve as an early warning system for you. You don't want to be caught unawares like that again. 

The hacks are mostly what you use yourself, security-wise, tightened up and tweaked a little: and with the addition of a logging function that reports directly to your mainframe in an encryption scheme that requires the epigenetic signature of a particular strain of bees (which is to say, yours) to unlock. That should keep Imperial snoops from getting in through your back door; it should also mean that if any one of your friends ever gets good enough at computer fuckery to notice the Trollian tap (you have a good laugh to yourself over that one) they'll know to place blame squarely on you, and not think the operation compromised. 

KK says straight up I BET THIS IS SO YOU CAN FEAST YOUR LOOKSTUBS ON MY JUNK THROUGH MY WEBCAM, RIGHT? and you answer there'2 a 2ecret way two fiind out the an2wer two that que2tiion, iit'2 called… learniing two code! 2o ii gue22 we can 2ay iit'll alway2 be a my2tery.

You wouldn't mind if he did find out. The thought of the heated look on his face… 

(He really does leave his webcam wide open, but you've just locked that down for him rather than ogle through it. You have the sneaking suspicion you'd stumble into a quadrant-filling endeavor you really didn't want to see, given you're not sure exactly what irons he has in the fire right now.)

In any case, you roll out the updates to everyone, even the people you're specifically avoiding bringing in on the plan. It's not the first time you've sent everyone you knew a software upgrade; and you've also made it so that old versions will experience a little bit of artificially generated lag when communicating with your version, just so that if anyone holds out, they'll end up complaining about it and the others will harangue them to install your patch.

Sometimes, you really do think of everything.

~~~

Feferi brings Kanaya in. Nepeta slyly lets Tavros know something's up, as you'd thought she might. You get the story both directly via Trollian and thirdhand through Feferi, but even if you hadn't, you have no reason to doubt it. Tavros has as much to lose as any of you and nothing appreciable to gain by playing the squeakbeast, and by now Aradia has gleaned enough information about his Ancestor that you suspect he's going to prove useful on more levels than you'd originally thought. 

It doesn't take long for TZ to troll you. You were going to contact her; you were just biding your time, but she gets there first; and when you're in the middle of double-checking the anonymity of your latest information requests, too.

GC: 4PPL3B3RRY   
GC: H3Y 4PPL3B3RRY   
GC: SOLLUX 1 KNOW YOUR3 TH3R3 YOU 4R3NT 3V3N S3T TO W4T3RY GR33N1SH   
TA: 2et two what now?   
GC: 4H4H4 1 KN3W 1T   
GC: ONL1N3 TROLL14N 1CONS T4ST3 L1K3 4PPL3 JOLLY R4NCHOK3RS!   
GC: 1NV1S1BL3 TROLLS 4R3 MOR3 L1KE W4T3R3D DOWN L1M34D3   
TA: tz.   
GC: OFFL1N3 T4ST3S L1K3 NOTH1NG OBV1OUSLY   
TA: 2orry tz, ii've been kiind of up two my horn2 iin bu2y.   
TA: can you maybe troll me agaiin when iit'2 not a22 o'clock iin the eveniing or 2omethiing, ii don't know.   
GC: >:P   
TA: tz what are you doiing.   
GC: >:P >:P >:P   
TA: ii really wii2h ii had tiime two 2hoot the 2hiit, ii would 2hoot that 2hiit 2o hard iit would fly through a wiindow and cull random pa22er2-by.   
GC: BL3CH >:(   
GC: YOUR T3XT T4ST3S L1K3 MU2T4RD 4ND POORLY CONC34L3D S3CR3CY   
GC: BOTH STRONGLY 4ND UNPL34S4NTLY   
TA: ii'll have you know ii conceal my 2henaniigan2 quiite expertly, and ii thiink you are u2iing your 2eer power2 two wiind me up.   
TA: and iif that ii2n't the ca2e, tz, you had better tell me riight now before the wa2te hiit2 the aiirflow generatiing deviice.   
GC: TH3R3 1S SO MUCH UNN3C3SS4RY PROJ3CT1L3 W4ST3 1N TH1S CONV3RS4T1ON!   
GC: BUT 1LL 4DM1T TH4T YOUR3 R1GHT 4BOUT TH3 S33R POW3RS >:]   
GC: OR POSS1BLY JUST MY POW3RS OF N3RD OBS3RV4T1ON   
GC: YOUR S3CUR1TY 1SNT BROK3N   
GC: MY SN1FFNOD3 1S JUST TH4T GOOD >:]   
GC: NOW R34D M3 1N 4LR34DY B3FOR3 TH3 S3CR3TS GO ST4L3! 

And you remember FF has been obliquely asking her legal questions, and the idle concerns that were making you wait melt away. You give her the Clliff's Notes version and she fills in the rest, about as astutely as you'd expect. The next few nights aren't so bad. It's hard to find ways to speak freely, but in between the lines it's clear that your loose-knit cadre of allies mostly aren't pulling in radically different directions.

Then something happens that you wish you could call surprising. You weren't expecting it, but not because it wasn't _obvious_ ; just because you didn't want to think about it.

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA]

GA: Sollux Would You Look At This Hoofbeastshit

\--grimAuxiliatrix sends file: WhatEvenTheFuck.Txt--

TA: kn why are you a2kiing ME?

You've been giving VK's chatlogs a wide berth, knowing that you'd have to get to them sooner or later but dreading it, so you're entirely uncertain what to expect.

AG: Everyone is 8eing all hush-hush and weird a8out the game 8ut I know it's a crock. Either they're all going to play in secr8 or there was no game to 8egin with. I know how these things work. I'm pretty savvy like that. ::::)   
AG: 8ut I know I can always trust YOU to level with me!    
GA: Vriska I Do Not Know What To Tell You   
GA: I Am Not Sure Who Else You Are Talking To But I Have Told You The Truth   
GA: We Played The Game Then Time Itself Was Reset   
AG: Why is everyone in on the joke 8ut me????????   
AG: I thought I could trust you 8etter than that.   
GA: What Are You Doing   
GA: Stop It   
GA: Sollux Foretold Doom During The Final Battle And Created An Exit Portal That Led To Our Own Universe In A Reset Continuity   
GA: We All Argued But Everyone Went Through Except For You   
GA: You Said You Would Have The New Universe To Yourself And We Were All A Bunch Of Suckers   
GA: Apparently Not Going Through The Portal Meant That Your Reset Self Did Not Retain Memory Of The Game   
GA: ...   
GA: Are You Happy Now   
GA: Having Shoved Me Around With Your Mind To Say What I Already Had Said   
GA: If Somewhat Less Brusquely The First Time   
AG: UUUUUUUUGH! You're useless!   
AG: I am going to g8 to the 8ottom of this if I have to 8reak every one of my f8lse fri8nds to do it!   
GA: ... Is That A Threat   
AG: T8ke it however you please! It's not like you're listening to me anyw8y.    
AG: I'm tired of 8eing a8andoned 8y you jerks.   
GA: That Is The Opposite Of How I Remember It   
AG: What8ver. Th8re's more than one w8y to get h8lp feeding Spidermom.   
GA: If You Really Mean What You Seem To Be Saying   
GA: I Dont Expect It Will Be Taken Lightly

This is so not your purview. In fact Vriska Management is pretty much the exact opposite of your specialty, but on a scale from one to what she's capable of, this is like a 0.2. You mostly keep poking at the windows where you're monitoring a bug-riddled alpha of some malware that's failing in various informative but exasperating ways to make headway through an abandoned corner of the Imperial Network and obsessively rereading every relevant text you've received from AA for the two hundredth time, but you still troll KN back, stomping down the queasy irrational anger that you've been skirting around this subject trying to avoid. This is wriggler stuff if anything, nothing really new.

TA: 2o vk ii2 pu2hiing you around, diid you expect anythiing diifferent.   
GA: I Am Not Sure It Is That Simple   
GA: We Shall See Whether She Follows Through But I For One Believe We Need To Keep A Close Watch On Her   
TA: you alway2 u2ed two want two keep a clo2e watch on her rumble 2phere2.    
GA: Although I Admit They Are Very Handsome Rumble Spheres   
GA: They Do Not Pose A Danger To Our Current Audacious Plans    
GA: Or Perhaps I Should Say Our Future Audacious Plans And Our Current Planning Disarray   
GA: But I Am Entirely Convinced You Take My Meaning And Are Just Attempting To Get My Miniature Hornbeast   
TA: who even thought of that iidiiom, ii2 what ii want two know.   
TA: liike what would ii do wiith a miiniiature hornbea2t, and why would ii acquiire iit by tea2iing you anyway.   
GA: Sollux You Are Changing The Subject   
GA: We Cannot Just Assume Vriska Serket Will Behave Herself And Stay Out Of Our Shit    
TA: and you're telliing me thii2 why, becau2e ii have 2uch a good track record of keepiing vk iin check?   
GA: I Am Telling You Because You Always Get Into Information Sooner Or Later Regardless   
GA: And Because By Nudging Everyone Into Action You Have Implied That You Would Like A Background Administrative Role In Our 'Shenanigans'   
GA: Which Requires Having Information   
GA: Also Self Pity Is Obnoxious And Masturbatory   
TA: thank2 kn, ii can alway2 rely on you two blow 2moke up my wa2te chute when ii need a piick-me-up.   
GA: Youre Welcome   
GA: So How Are We Going To Deal With Vriska

You unclench your jaw, pry your fingers from the keyboard and stretch. Fuck all mind readers with a rusty culling fork; you would be 200% done with this but you haven't even _started_ this yet. You set a time and date at Kanaya's hive, because if you bothered to set up a chatroom and ask everyone about a meeting you would probably wind up with a date sometime after the end of your projected lifespan, and start spreading the news. Vriska could end everything with a snap of her fingers and a well placed text message – or get bored, wander off and leave you all to your audacious planning disarray, but so much of this business inherently involves taking too many chances that the part of you that manages risks and probabilities isn't going to let this one lie.

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling cuttlefishCuller [CC]

TA: ff   
TA: after a concerted effort by kn two diig my head out of the 2and, ii thiink we have two actually deal wiith thii2 vk thiing   
TA: meetiing the day after tomorrow?   
TA: al2o everythiing about thii2 2uck2

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]

TA: hey jerkface do you have anythiing iimportant happeniing thur2day   
TA: iif 2o then two bad, cancel iit   
TA: and tell the other u2ual 2u2pect2 the 2ame, ii don't have tiime two lii2ten two hii2triioniic2 and excu2e2 riight now.

And you keep going down your contact list, your hands forming words but your thinkpan a blur of hastily constructed walls and static and possibilities.


	4. so many things can look like blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TA: 2o you wouldn't by any chance be planniing two briing along a gue2t ii'm not expectiing, riight?   
>  TA: liike a certaiin noxiiou2 viiolet bulgebiiter, for example.   
>  CG: I KNEW IT.   
>  CG: I KNEW YOU WERE SNIFFING MY PANTIES THROUGH YOUR VIRTUAL AIR SHAFT. I CALLED IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.   
>  CG: YOU ARE SO PREDICTABLE, CLOCKS SET THEMSELVES BY YOUR MOOD SWINGS.
> 
> Well, at any rate, the game was great meowbeast-herding practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this is where the shipping grid starts to get complicated, so if you like that sort of thing then this is the thing for you. Big thanks to [Aewin](http://solluxisms.tumblr.com) for beta and to [trickshire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/trickshire/pseuds/trickshire) for being our Eridan wrangler! Auspisticism in Wires and Stars basically follows [these headcanons.](http://tatterdemalionamberite.tumblr.com/post/58412886186/so-titian-is-sleeping-in-the-other-room-more-loud)

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]

TA: 2o you wouldn't by any chance be planniing two briing along a gue2t ii'm not expectiing, riight?  
TA: liike a certaiin noxiiou2 viiolet bulgebiiter, for example.  
CG: I KNEW IT.  
CG: I KNEW YOU WERE SNIFFING MY PANTIES THROUGH YOUR VIRTUAL AIR SHAFT. I CALLED IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.  
CG: YOU ARE SO PREDICTABLE, CLOCKS SET THEMSELVES BY YOUR MOOD SWINGS.  
TA: 2eriiou2ly though, WHY.  
TA: iit'2 not liike our liittle 2hiindiig ha2 anythiing two offer mii2ter neck-giill2-deep-iin-the-2tatu2-quo'2-nook.  
CG: CALM THE FUCK DOWN, SHORT CIRCUIT ON LEGS.  
CG: I SWEAR HE'S NOT GOING TO DO ANY DAMAGE. I TAKE PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY.  
TA: why would you even do that, you don't have friiendleader dutiie2 anymore or anythiing.  
TA: ii2 thii2 out of 2ome mii2guiided 2en2e of...  
TA: oh.   
TA: plea2e tell me you're not buyiing hii2 nobody love2 me nobody hate2 me gue22 ii'll go eat 2oft 2egmented iinvertebrate2 quadrant faiilure piity ploy.  
CG:...IT'S NOT REMOTELY LIKE THAT.  
TA: gl'bgolyb'2 tiittiie2, kk, what the fuck are you thiinkiing.  
CG: CEASE PSYCHICALLY PERTURBING YOUR SOUPED-UP COMPUTER KEYBOARD FOR A MINUTE THERE AND LISTEN.  
CG: I DID NOT LET ERIDAN AMPORA SEDUCE ME. I AM NOT PLANNING ON LETTING ERIDAN AMPORA SEDUCE ME. HE COULDN'T SEDUCE A MACKEREL WITH ITS CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM SCOOPED OUT.  
CG: AND YES, THAT'S ONE OF SEVERAL THINGS ABOUT HIM WHICH ARE MIND-BREAKINGLY PATHETIC.  
TA: ugh, gag me wiith a rounded 2erviing uten2iil.  
TA: you diid not ju2t 2ay that.  
CG: WHATEVER. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL YOU HOLD SACRED, WHICH IN YOUR CASE LARGELY CONSISTS OF INSTANT GRUBNOODLES, CODE AND BEE GENETICS AS FAR AS I CAN TELL, DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE TELL HIM. I WILL CUT YOU IF YOU DO. I WILL CUT YOUR *BEES*.   
TA: ii beliieve you kk, at the very lea2t becau2e no one would tell me 2uch a humiiliiatiing excu2e iif iit wa2 a liie.  
TA: are you 2ure you don't want me two tell hiim for you, ii'm not entiirely...  
TA: no, ii can't 2ay that wiith a 2traiight face, dammiit.  
TA: your head of 2team ii2 thoroughly conviinciing, ii have no doubt you would come over here iin a lather and TRY two cut my bee2.  
CG: THE BEE-GUILLOTINE IS BEING PREPARED AT THIS VERY MOMENT, YOU DISBELIEVING DOUCHE.  
TA: diid you ju2t not get the memo, ii 2aiid ii beliieve you.  
TA: ii won't go blabbiing, your nau2eatiingly moroniic feeliing2 are hereby added two the extremely long document iin my head tiitled 2ollux'2 endle22 lii2t of thiing2 two not blab.   
TA: but why ii2 iit 2uch a 2tate 2ecret, iit'2 not liike he'2 goiing two turn you down.  
CG: IT'S COMPLICATED. JUST. WOULD YOU TELL ERIDAN AMPORA IF YOU WERE FLUSHED FOR HIM?  
TA: for 2tarter2, ii wouldn't be flu2hed for hiim.  
TA: we'll talk about thii2 later.

The meeting rolls around, and you take the four-wheeled transit vehicle to its last terminus, then fly through a few miles of uninhabited (well, _mostly_ uninhabited) desert. It's late enough at night that the undead are in whatever odd lull passes for sleep. Kanaya, herself, has dark smudges of emerald under her eyes when she greets you; you've pulled her off the diurnal schedule she keeps, though she's otherwise immaculate besides a bit of grumbling.

You, on the other hand, are decidedly jumpy. Your original expectations for what a first group meeting would be like: quiet, determined, lacking in highbloods other than Feferi. The actual: spurred on by a state of emergency and every highblood invited except VK and GZ. 

You expected FF to arrive with you or nearly with you, but she's late; says there was a slight delay in feeding her lusus, and that's not something you remotely want to mess with. You _hope_ it doesn't have anything to do with ED. Speaking of whom: in struts sir twerpface, awkwardly clinging to KK. Okay, he's several feet behind KK and trying to look slouchy and disinterested, but you know a cling from across the room when you see one. And you're not going to hide your suspicion, no matter how glad you are that your early warning system told you something was up. Admittedly, he's _only_ a liability where Vriska is actively dangerous. Or rather: he might choose to be dangerous, but if that was his game, being a spy in your midst is probably not the way he'd go about it.

Nope. Not trusting that guy.

You get the chance to act on your misgivings pretty much the minute they walk in the door. Kanaya and Karkat get into the kind of overlapping, hand-fluttering conversation that you would normally only expect to see on _Gossip Pupas_ , and you're able to cut Eridan off from his awkward hovering like a lone herdbeast. Not literally, of course. You tap at your phone in your pocket with faint light.

TA: thii2 ii2 a very iimportant text that you have two an2wer iin the hallway iimmediiately.  
CA: wwhat  
TA: ii know you can read, miight po22iibly be the only thiing you have goiing for you at thii2 poiint.  
TA: NOW, ed. 

It's not like that's much bait to take, but it's mere minutes of slouching against the wall in what passes for dim light here before he takes it; stalks around the corner rolling his eyes and opening his mouth to start whining.

"What I want to know," you hiss, lifting him up by the collar with invisible hands so his feet still touch the ground but only barely, "is where do you get off."

"The fuck do you even mean, Sol," he says. He tries to punch your shielding but his arm doesn't actually go anywhere; then you think he tries to knee you in the bulge but all that happens is ridiculous squirming. You wonder how he ever survived all that FLARP. Oh, right, Vriska.

" _Some_ of us literally can't live with the status quo, but you have that luxury. You're not going to be culled for - if that's even a mutation and not hair dye -" You gesture at his purple streak, hands totally free, grimacing disdainfully; some of you have _real_ mutations - and okay _maybe_ you're also showing off that you can totally manhandle him with your mind while talking with your hands: if he's going to betray you, how much he knows about your off-scale power rating is the least of your problems. "And FF dumped your ass, like, your ass is the most verifiably dumped ass on Alternia, even if you didn't remember the things that never happened which I'm pretty sure you do, you made her have to dump you again. And last I checked you wanted to _kill_ us on _principle_." 

"So I'm not in the good graces of some a you weirdos, fine." Eridan kicks out halfheartedly at your shin, aware by now that the gesture is for show at best, before giving you his best seriously offended glower. "But if you think I'm gonna let Fef get culled you better think about that again real quick. Just ‘cause I’m _rightfully upset_ over her tossin’ me overboard don’t mean I want her dead. I've done nothin to Vris, have I, and Vris was never half as – fuck, I don't have to tell such as you any a this, lemme _go_." He headbutts thin air furiously, this time as if he means it, and you're reminded with muted amusement of something you read about the memory span of goldfish.

"Last I recall, your relationship with VK was a case of _special circumstances_ , am I wrong? No, don't answer that, I'm usually right. And I don't think it exactly helps your case either." You mimic his voice - ugh, god he's whiny. "Hi, I'm Eridan Ampora and I go _slummin around with bluebloods_ sometimes, see, you common folks can trust me!" 

"Oh look, I'm Thollux Captwor and I mithplathed my aural shells becauthe they're not ethential computing equipment," ED spits back at you. He's even worse at mimicking your lisp than KK; in fact, he sounds exactly like a shitty imitation of KK mimicking your lisp, while also being on the verge of panicking or crying or something equally embarrassing. Ugh. "I said _I'm not gonna let Fef get culled._ And it ain’t as if she’s the only one I give a squid’s shit about in this mess either! I’m not gonna turn my back on Kan. Or Kar." He turns a stupid shade of violet just saying his dumb nickname for KK. Double ugh. "They're my friends, not that you would have the first idea about that, and if you must know the only ones I've got anymore are in this creepy daywalker infested hive, ya meddlin sulfur-for-vasculars – ugh, forget I fuckin said anythin."

And there are hornets' nests you're not going to poke, but - "Oho! So VK _did_ de-hatefriend you on Trollbook, then," you say, trying to make it come off as a casual smug assertion, feeling like your dig for intel is way too transparent. Then again, ED never was great at noticing the obvious.

"What's it to you? I bet she defriended the rest a you losers too," he snips, pulling a sneer to cover a muddled hurt-relieved grimace. "...and blocked you on Trollian, an' stopped answerin text messages," he adds despondently.

You don't suppose that cracking up is helping you intimidate this walking mistake of a seadweller, but you can't help yourself. Reluctantly, you let him down from the wall; you're giggling hard enough that you don't want to bother having to pay attention to your powers, and frankly, you were sold on his loyalties at about the point where he started blushing stupidly. You're keeping up enough of a force field not to let him take a swing at you, though. "...All right, I guess you can stay. Just -" you force your voice serious again - "- _if_ you got it into your head to snitch, something happened and you got frustrated with the lot of us, whatever, just remember it's not like the Threshecutioners are gonna look at you and say _ohh well he's got well-formed earfins, we can't cull HIM!_ \- You're in or you're out, is what I'm saying."

ED rubs dramatically at his shoulder even though seadwellers are resilient and there's no way he actually injured himself with the feeble fight he just put up. "...and I'm not already bein' treated as a traitor how?" he whines, then takes a look at your shimmering shielding, grits his teeth and changes tack. "I'm aware a the penalty for double crossin, unlike some a you uncultured bilgebloods that used your Imperial History schoolfeed books as husktop stands or huntin ammunition, and... I've done my own share a cullin, all right. I _know_ what I’m in for, an’ I probably know it better’n the rest of you do." And he turns his back on you and starts down the hallway, still holding ostentatiously onto his shoulder.

~~~

 

In the petty chaos that is Kanaya being aggressively conciliatory at everyone present – Eridan drinks in her annoyed tisking and offers of tea alike as if no one has spoken to him in nights; KK alternates between blaring-loud and sullenly silent hunched over his tea like some kind of quillbeast or armored beetle trying to shelter curled up under its own back; FF has somehow managed to graciously and enthusiastically make herself useful with the snacks and tea before anyone notices she's arrived – the additional ruckus of Terezi prying her sandy shoes off with her cane in the entryway and yelling "What's the news, Appleberry?" before she even gets into the same block with you is almost a relief.

"Someone we both know and dislike might be up to some shit. Or not," you wait to tell her until she's actually within normal speaking range. She nods like she's known all along and wanders off, leaving you to your husktop. By the time Tavros arrives Terezi is bickering with Karkat like you've all been stuck in this block for more like fifteen perigees than fifteen minutes, and then Nepeta shows up with no idea where Equius is. You type _what the glub_ into your phone; Feferi shrugs at you from across the room. You give up on trying to start the meeting and keep yourself busy by sweeping the hive for bugs again; the first two checks came up clean, but a third certainly won't hurt.

Eridan is starting to complain that it's near enough sunrise he won't be able to get back to his hive. You're about to go off about how dumb it is to live in a shipwreck when the wayward blueblood slips in and shuts Kanaya's hiveportal behind him. 

" _Finally_ ," Karkat says. "I was starting to think you'd been clawed to pieces by the undead hordes." He somehow manages to sound both alarmed by the prospect and like he wouldn't be annoyed if it happened. EQ looks intact, but his composure is ruffled and his forehead soaked with sweat; still, for him that could just be weather.

"No," Equius says quietly, "I've been saddled with a different set of inconveniences," and something sharp in his tone makes you look up. 

Everyone's quiet for a moment, until you dispense with waiting for a cue.

"Okay, so, you're late. You've been detained by some circumstance. Shit, EQ, what happened? Please tell me it doesn't involve, say, anti-insurgency drones about to descend on us right this minute." 

KK quietly mimicks the way you say 'insurgency'; you pretend not to hear him.

"Rein in your paranoia," EQ says. He sounds tired. "Vriska Serket cornered me for maintenance on her arm. Which I supplied, despite the inappropriately demanding tone she used to ask." You start to wince. His preoccupation with hemocaste isn't going to make this easier; he and Eridan are the two who outrank her in that department, and historically they've... well, you're not even sure what to call ED's failed attempt at kismesissitude with VK, but you're starting to worry that some of your friends might be too _attached_. Hell, you feel sick thinking about going after her. Not that you don't want Vriska gone. Just that the idea of doing the dirty work yourself puts a knot in your stomach, half from worry about what could go wrong and half because the idea of killing has always been rather less comfortable to you than the idea of dying.

You and KK both were so explicitly and repetitively clear about the absolute secrecy of this meeting that you were pleasantly surprised that no one told you to knock it off with the reminders - not that that prevented KK from having told ED before the meeting was even scheduled. In any case, you aren't going to have time to put up with the kind of confused, circular flow of orders, misunderstandings, and snark that characterized the game, though you're certain you'll eventually find yourself dealing with a communication clusterfuck sooner or later. But it's not like Equius to just open his trap for no good reason, so he can't have told her; can he?

"She seems to know something is ahoof," he continues. "She pressed me on the subject a bit, while trying to seem as if she wasn't doing so. That part made it easier to avoid her inquiries. Then she turned to making a fuss of how tough she was and how she needed to be prepared to fight anyone. Did we intend....?" He leaves it dangling, and you're unsure whether he's asking if the plan was to bring her in or fight her. 

Kanaya saves you from having to explain. "She threatened me baldly the other morning," she says, blunt and to the point. "I doubt if she has any idea what we intend, but her meddling could nonetheless ruin our chances. I say we cull her." She winces a little saying it, but is no less firm for that.

A murmur runs through the block, but it doesn't sound anything like dissent. Karkat mutters something like "Here goes;" Feferi glances at you, just a quick look to make sure you're all right. 

"Isn't there anyone else in here who thinks this might not be entirely fuckin necessary?" Eridan pipes in, fins nearly flat back against his head and looking distinctly like he expects to be slapped, possibly by you. "Vris is just blusterin because she thinks we're messin with her. She's bein irrational about the game an won't listen to logic, but why not just leave well enough alone and ignoooooooore her until she gets boooooooored," he imitates the completely insufferable droning yowl of Vriska when she gets agitated, then glances around grinning sheepishly as if he expects to score mocking Vriska in-crowd bonus points.

It's Kanaya who answers him, and for all it's a brisk smackdown, she sounds more sympathetic than the words let on. "Do you believe she'd have any qualms about throwing _you_ under the four-wheeled transit conveyance if the situation were reversed? And, more to the point, has she _ever_ responded less than catastrophically to being ignored?"

"Her energy needs to be harnessed, at the very least," Equius begins, but Karkat is already trammelling over him.

"I don't like this either!" he's saying. "But Kanaya's right. 'Just leave her alone' is not an answer; it's letting a cholerbear loose in a brooding cavern."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Eridan mutters, his chin drooping until half his face is hidden in the collar of his cape.

"There are lots of pawsible ways to deal with the situation," Nepeta says, loudly and not looking at anyone in particular. It's weird for her to be hedging like that; Karkat doesn't notice, just interjects brusquely.

"There sure are, now can we _hear_ some of them before we all pass away tragically from terminal indecision?"

Kanaya picks at a cookie, nervously crumbling pieces between her claws, but her face stays smoothly resolute. "Vriska's hive is still in rather perilous proximity to a cliff's edge," she offers, "Most of the paw – possibilities I've thought of run that way. But I'm not a strategist, I'm afraid." Awkward silence descends again.

Eridan, of all people, speaks up: reluctantly, quietly, his mouth quirked sideways with dissatisfaction. "Vris is still playin' FLARP," he offers. "I've seen her listed in ranked matches. It's the best pretext we could ask for." You're surprised that he manages _we_ without stumbling; he's still holding himself with his shoulders almost drawn up to his ears, a bit like you all could somehow pollute his blood by proximity. Equius solemnly nods agreement.

"I would pike to get unanimity on this," Feferi says softly, continuing to look from troll to troll, but for a moment no one seems inclined to answer.

"I have a consideration." The voice is sharp, carefully enunciated, and Terezi rises leaning dramatically on her cane in what you've all come to recognize as one of her courtroom addresses. "I'm not advocating restraint or hesitation! Our true adversary is vast, and we are... well." She scans the room in a sightless approximation of a significant glance, one eyebrow raised almost to her hairline. "But this treachery suspect is a single troll without the weight of the Empire behind her, and this should be settled accuser to accused, not by mob culling. Otherwise we aren't just proving our movement unjust, but too cowardly to stand up to a single mindreader throwing a tantrum." She's taut and shaky with anger, but not at anyone in the room. You don't like anything about where this is going.

"She doesn't just _read_ minds," you point out, sounding rather more bitter than you meant to.

"I can hold my own against that," Terezi snaps, although the corners of her mouth quickly tug down apologetically.

"Well, isn't that nice for _you_ ," you fire back without thinking.

"I, uh." Everyone turns around to look at Tavros. His voice only wavers a little. "Give me a chance to deal with her."

Terezi and Feferi look thoughtful, but Equius stifles what you're pretty sure was going to be a snort. "Uh, Tavros?" Karkat blurts out. "Do you have a fever? Are you _sure_ you didn't get gnawed on by a zombie on the way here? Even a little bit? Then what the blistering fuck –" You elbow him in the ribs across the room with psionics to shut him up. Nepeta does something with her hand that catches your eye. You wouldn't honestly notice except she's wearing her claw extensions and they flash in the light; she's giving Tavros a thumbs-up sign, and you think there must be context here that you're missing.

"Three nights," he says. "Three nights, and if it doesn't, uh, work out, you can go after her. But. I've got this. Don't believe me, that's fine, you can go after her when I fail, right?"

Terezi turns to face him, wearing a concerned frown. "Dude, you haven't exactly come away from your dealings with Serket before looking much better than any of the rest of us who've been shortsighted enough to try." Terezi actually waggles her eyebrows a bit at her own joke, though the usual expressive acrobatics of her face are subdued with worry.

"If I," Tavros says, "told all of you what I had in mind, I think it would be a security flaw in what is, otherwise, a completely badass plan, which if it succeeds will make Vriska totally aware of my intentions towards her, and give her some motivation to support us rather than hinder us." Nepeta is doing the thumbs-up thing again and both of Terezi's brows are at full mast. _My intentions towards her_ , eh?

"What about if it fails?" Kanaya asks. "Have you given a thought to that?"

"If it fails, we'll probably have to kill her, but, back to square one, right?" His voice barely wavers.

"Then you'd better have let _someone_ in on your plan so we're not all stuck here scratching our horns like chumps if you don't get back in good enough shape to tell us what you did and what we're dealing with!" Terezi either forgets about her dramatic cane leaning or changes tactics and winds up waving the dragon-shaped handle at Tavros as she interjects, the other end swinging and barely missing Nepeta. "So I'm volunteering for spider backup duty – if this assembly approves."

"I'm certainly not arguing," you tell TZ, drowning out Karkat's stammered _but_. "Redundancy is good."

"Nepeta has, uh, already volunteered to be my second," Tavros finally hedges, looking awkward. Suspicions confirmed.

"We'll tail you what you need to know," Nepeta says briskly to Terezi. 

"Consider it a bargain." Terezi nods to each of them in turn and drops back into her chair looking pleased with herself, which – Terezi being pleased with herself makes you kind of reflexively worried, but this is still on the better end of the scale of outcomes you envisioned for this meeting (zero being "everyone dies.")

"We're all going to die," Karkat mutters, hands clapped to his eyes.

"Hey! That's my line, assface." But is it? Is doom still your purview, now that everything has changed? That's too confusing a line of thought, and you shelve it for now.

"And you bunch always say _I_ come over all inappropriately romantic," Eridan mutters, accusatory. You ignore him.

"In the event that we don't go up in a cloud of post-larval hormones and ambition fumes," Karkat says, "- Why am I even hedging. We all know why we're here, which is because we want to do something _grander_ than staying out of the way of drone sweeps and avoiding the business ends of culling forks. Grander even than eliminating our enemies in faux FLARP style. Yes?"

"Yes," Feferi says, and draws herself up. 

"That _is_ why we're deciding it's worth going after Vriska, instead of correctly concluding that we'd have to be complete morons to want to poke that with a stick to see what happens, yes?" Karkat continues.

"Yes," Kanaya answers. You can hear the glare in her voice, and you guess she's none too pleased with being left out of the loop, though Tavros is right that it's better if fewer people are in on his plan. 

"Then maybe we'd better figure out what the hell we're doing next, to avoid the inevitable conference in which everyone stares at me with their jaw hanging open, being all _help us Karkat what do._ " 

You don't seem to remember the game actually going that way, but you hold your tongue; he's got a point. "Nothing too specific yet," you amend. The less stray information capable of getting out of control, the better.

"Very whale then," Feferi says. "Generalities." 

You're not sure if everyone turns to look at her just then or whether you've all been watching her already. The way she commands attention, the shift in focus is so sudden and subtle that it reminds you of the time you were at NP's place and there was suddenly a meowbeast in your lap, with no sign of how it had arrived there. 

She turns to Equius. "We may sometimes forget ourselves, in opposing the old order. That isn't always a bad fin, but we need to be able to make peace that lasts. Rein in our worse impulses."

"Is she actually making horse puns," Karkat says. "Cull me now." The idea of Equius as the voice of moderation is still somewhat jarring to you too, so this time it's Eridan who nudges Karkat (more gently) to shut him up.

"I accept the task at hoof," Equius agrees, ignoring the outburst, although he does shift awkwardly, his chair creaking like it's supporting twelve trolls instead of just one, and scrub at his forehead with the back of his fist after getting an order from the Heiress. "And will do my best to keep the troops in line."

She plants herself inches before Terezi, so close you're sure the tealblood can feel her breathe. "Pikewise, with you - we've spoken about this, it's no news to you. But make sure everything we do holds up to scrutiny."

"Remember who our enemy is!" Terezi responds, voice ringing with deliberate projection, clearly addressing the entire assembly rather than just Feferi. "And don't take your sniffnodes off the mark! Then our skulking and dastardly deeds will be only the most justified."

Gesturing with her hand to include Nepeta, Tavros and Kanaya, Feferi says, "Aside from current affairs, the three of you are mostly going to come in handy later on - tactics, fighting, ground-forces stuff. Which we're hopefully going to do as little of as possible, because if it came down to numbers we'd almost certainly lose." Tavros nods fervently. "Except -" 

She turns to you. "You understand systems, the spread of information - you get to work out logistical details, large and small. How to feed my lusus more sustainably. How to sway the public. Work with Terezi and with Aradia." You think you hear the sound of a few pairs of eyebrows hitting the ceiling. Terezi just shark-grins at you like she's actually looking forward to keeping her tongue stuck to your husktop screen for the next however many perigees. You're not even sure how Eridan manages to be so obtrusive about standing next to the wall shifting from foot to foot, but it's getting on your nerves. FF must notice, because she looks to him next. "You're a decent strategist. We're going to need that; we're also going to need to communicate with other seadwellers unobtrusively, and I'm a little too obvious." 

By the way she's laying everything out, it almost sounds like she's planning a FLARP campaign. But of course this is something even more serious than that. Eridan nods to her and grumbles, "Whatever you say, Fef," and you're not sure whether he's trying to conceal uncertainty under indignation or vice versa, but you're not sure you care. 

She looks at Karkat then, just _looks_ at him, and says firmly, "I'll need a Discordictator."

He chokes on his own spit. Then, "That's nice," he says deliberately.

"Let's try this again. I need _you_ to be my Discordictator."

"There hasn't been a proper one of _those_ in fuckin centuries," Eridan rambles cheerfully, "not since Her Imperious Condescension disliked the advice a' hers and made the position sorta ceremonial, after a few heads got knocked off, anyway -"

"Ugh, and _that_ sure makes me feel confident about what was already a dubious clusterfuck of a suggestion," KK grumbles -

"It wasn't a suggestion," Feferi says, "And removing formal fishidence is exactly where she went wrong!" She has this way of dragging everyone back to the topic that reminds you of Nepeta pulling a kill behind her, and she's pink-cheeked with vehemence as she goes on. "I have every intention of being betta than that. But intentions are things they write in your epitaph, and if I survive as long as I hope I will, I'll need more than intention, on every side. And you, Karkat: you're not easily intimidated. Shore, if we need a symbol that I'm not like the last Empress - you can be that symbol, it's true. But so could Sole-lux! You, on the other fin, _you_ know how to shout at people. You know how to be a friendleader. And we need someglubby to be _that_. I'm too intimidating, whether or not I want to be."

KK casts a darting sidelong glare around the room, the kind of 'anyone who notices me freaking out is getting their ass handed to them on a silver sickle' fierce-scared look that makes your stomach do an inconvenient little flip. "Thanks, I guess," he growls, and leaves it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trickshire is our co-author on an upcoming parallel series which focuses on vignettes of some of the non-Sollux-centric relationships in the story; the first piece will be going up soon. Feel free to subscribe to any one of us to get an announcement when it starts being posted!
> 
> And yes, Sollux did just mentally insult Eridan's nickname convention while using his own. It's like he's got a ... _double standard_. 


	5. the sound of hornets swarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AT: iT TURNS OUT, tHAT i AM NOT PARTICULARLY, pERSONALLY ATTACHED TO YOUR LUSUS,   
>  AT: aND MY AUSPISTICE, rEMINDED ME THAT AS LONG AS SPIDERMOM, wAS WEAVING THESE SHITTY WEBS, aROUND YOU,   
>  AT: i MIGHT AS WELL BE ATTEMPTING, tO GET DOWN WITH AN IMPERIAL DRONE, wHICH IS TO SAY, yOU SIMPLY WEREN'T CAPABLE OF THE RIGHT KIND OF HOSTILITY, }:/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to readers that Wires and Stars ashen romance is [slightly different, and more expansive, than in canon](http://tatterdemalionamberite.tumblr.com/post/58412886186/so-titian-is-sleeping-in-the-other-room-more-loud): an auspistice serves as a sort of blackrom coach to their auspisticee(s), not only steering them away from ill-fated pitch flings but also matchmaking and helping the auspisticee fine-tune their advances.
> 
> (This chapter, if you haven't guessed, contains Tavros <3< Vriska and a heavily implied ashen ship in the background. Putting it here rather than in tags because it's not a central focus of the whole story and we don't want to mislead readers.)

arsenicCatnip [AC] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA]  
AC: :33 < *ac leaps off the top of your gaming tower and into your path, b33ing careful not to get mind honey on her paws*  
TA: don't thiink ii don't 2ee your terriible, awful pun.  
TA: ii know where iit liive2, ii know where iit 2leep2.  
AC: :33 < puns don't sl33p! they are ever vigilant.  
AC: :33 *ac sidles up to pawllux to ask an impurrtant fafur*  
TA: ii'm kiind of bu2y, but then ii don't 2ee that changiing any tiime thii2 century 2o go ahead.  
AC: :33 < we n33d a memo!  
AC: :33 < and since you are the code maintainer on the purrent fursion of trollian that we are all using, that means you n33d to reactivate the memo feature!  
TA: hell no, iit'2 the lea2t 2ecure of any of the experiimental feature2.  
TA: and a2 far a2 ii can tell there ii2 no way two make iit 2ecure, ii'd have two rewriite iit from 2cratch.  
AC: :33 < *ac gives a stubborn furown* it's absolutely necessary!  
AC: :33 < what if i purrmise no one will say anything sensitive in it?  
TA: how can you even promii2e that?   
AC: :33 < you can tail them so yourself! and shut down the memo if anyone breaks secrecy.  
TA: but people are 2tupiid, iit'2 a con2tant of the uniiver2e.  
AC: :33 < then they'll find some other way to be stupid even if you don't start a memeow! at least this way, you'll be able to overs33 the stupidity, and pounce on it as soon as you catch it. :33  
TA: you've got a poiint.

You grudgingly set up the memo. To be honest, you're not sure her logic quite works for something that exists simultaneously at all time points, but you'd also rather find out sooner than later if anyone's going to flame out via failure to follow directions. 

You don't find out the rest of the plan until the night everyone else does – the details are actually safer on a hard drive than in your head, for once, which is an incredibly uncomfortable thought during the rare times you stop working long enough to think about it – but you scrape the latest chatlogs from the phones and husktops of everyone involved as soon as you can afterward.

  
arachnidsGrip [AG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC]

AG: We're still fr8nds, r8????????  
GC: 1T D3P3NDS WH4T YOU M34N BY 'FR13NDS' >:P  
AG: People who help each other out when the other one's in trou8le????????  
GC: BUT TH3 GR34T VR1SK4 S3RK3T SUR3LY DO3SNT N33D H3LP FROM 4NYON3!  
AG: I'm not joking!!!!!!!!  
GC: N31TH3R 4M 1 >:]  
AG: Seriously Pyrope, you gotta h8lp me, I'm stuck up a fucking TREE!!!!!!!!  
AG: What is this even a8out? What did I even do to anyone? D::::  
GC: 1F YOU N33D H3LP F1GUR1NG OUT TH3 LOGG1NG FUNCT1ON ON TROLL14N 4SK SOLLUX  
GC: OH W41T  
GC: S33  
GC: TH4T W4S 4 JOK3  
GC: NOW YOU KNOW HOW TO T3LL TH3 D1FF3R3NCE >:]  
AG: I'm surrounded 8y a mad meow8east whisperer and a pack of r8venous lions!  
AG: My toes are in d8nger! Is that your idea of a joke????????  
GC: NO  
GC: BUT 1T SOUNDS L1K3 QU1T3 4N 4DV3NTUR3!  
GC: TH3 K1ND YOU W3R3 H4TCH3D FOR BY V1RTU3 OF YOUR 1LLUSTR1OUS 4NC3STRY M4YB3!  
AG: Th8s 8sn't funny!!!!!!!!  
GC: 1 JUST S41D 1T W4SNT 4 JOK3  
GC: W3R3 YOU 3V3N P4Y1NG 4TT3NT1ON >:[  
AG: That implies you DO know something a8out this.   
AG: ……..  
AG: You sent her, d8dn't you?  
AG: Couldn't do your own dirty work, Pyrope? I'm disappointed in you. ::::(  
AG: 8t least she's not hard to overpower!  
GC: 1 C4N N31TH3R CONF1RM NOR D3NY TH3 4CCUS4T1ON!  
GC: BUT 1F YOU B3L13V3 TH4T YOUR TH1NKP4N SH3N4N1G4NS C4N STOP RO4RB34STS FROM B31NG HUNGRY TH3N 1 4M NOT SUR3 WH4T TO T3LL YOU >:/  
AG: I made her tell the mountain roar8easts to leave 8ut they 8ren't leaving. D::::  
AG: If you wanted me to say it, you're finally going to get what you were w8ing for, ok8y! I'm sc8red.  
GC: W3LCOM3 TO TH3 FL1P S1D3 OF YOUR SH3N4N1G4NS  
GC: WH4T 1S 1T YOU S4Y  
GC: OH Y34H  
GC: YOULL 83 JUST F11111111N3!!!!!!!!  
GC: D1D 1 G3T 1T R1GHT  
GC: 1 COUNT3D 4ND 3V3RYTH1NG >:]  
AG: You can tell me what your g8me is 8ny night now!  
AG: I can still get my n8gh8or to m8ke new eyes for you, especially since I've got hold of his moir8il ::::)  
AG: 8ut I won't 8e any use if I'm stuck here at day8r8k!!!!!!!!  
GC: 1TS 4LL R1GHT M1SS BLU3B3RRY B4CKST4B P13  
GC: 1T W1LL 4LL B3 OV3R SOON  
AG: So is th8 8 then? Did you get me up here to k8ll me?  
AG: Ev8n 8t your worst I n8ver thought you wouldn't d8re to f8ce me!!!!!!!!  
GC: YOUR3 R1GHT 4BOUT ON3 TH1NG  
GC: 1F 1 W4S PL4NN1NG TO K1LL YOU 1D PROS3CUT3 YOU MYS3LF!  
GC: 4ND 1 WOULDNT BOTH3R W1TH 4LL TH1S D1ST4ST3FUL D3C31T  
GC: 1D ST1LL S3TTL3 FOR US1NG YOUR OLD TR1CKS ON YOU 1F 1 H4D TO  
GC: BUT 1T WOULDNT F33L R1GHT TO S1NK TO TH4T L3V3L  
GC: 4ND 4NYW4Y 1 WOULDNT H4V3 TO >:]  
AG: Your riddles ar8n't 8ny h8lp!!!!!!!!  
AG: 8ut fine, there are other trolls that c8re a8out me and appreci8 my a8ilities!  
GC: N4M3 JUST ON3  
AG: It's not my fault my high8lood friends are 8usy! It's the peril of hanging out with v8ry import8nt people.  
AG: 8ut th8 8r8 Tavros cares a8out me!!!!!!!! He c8n't tear himself aw8y.  
GC: WOW 1 TH1NK YOU W1LL COM3 TO 4PPR3C14T3 HOW R1GHT YOU 4R3 V3RY SOON  
AG: Of course I'm r8! W8, the superior Terezi Pyrope is finally coming to see reason????????  
AG: So does that mean you'll h8lp?  
GC: NO  
GC: WHY H3LP WH3N 1 C4N S1T B4CK 4ND W4TCH 1NST34D, R1GHT? 1 L34RN3D FROM TH3 B3ST >:]  
AG: Ughhhhhhhhh! R8st 8ssured, I'll find out all a8out your o8tuse motiv8ions l8er!

gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling adiosToreador [AT]  
GC: H3Y T4VROS  
GC: TH3 W3B 1S 3MPTY 4ND TH3 TR33 1S 1N BLOOM!  
GC: NO, TH4T SOUNDS STUP1D, 1 MUST H4V3 TH3 COD3 WRONG >:[  
GC: ...WH4T3V3R, COD3 1S UNN3C3SS4RY  
GC: VR1SK4 1S COMPL3T3LY CLU3L3SS, 4LL PL4NS 4R3 GO!  
GC: GOOD LUCK >:]

adiosToreador [AT] began trolling arachnidsGrip [AG]  
AT: hELLO, vRISKA, pLEASE HAVE MY CONDOLENCES,  
AG: W8w! Talk a8out coincidences!!!!!!!!   
AG: I was just a8out to troll you. 8oy, do I have a story to tell. You even have a ch8nce to 8e part of the excitement.  
AG: W8. Condolences? Wh8?  
AT: tHE OTHERS AGREED, tHAT i COULD GIVE YOU ONE MORE CHANCE, tO GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER,  
AT: tHAT IS ONE, nOT EIGHT, oR ANY OTHER NUMBER THAT ANYONE HAS DECIDED, iS SUITABLE TO THEIR PERSONAL SENSE OF SYMMETRY,  
AT: bUT i DECIDED i HAD TO KILL YOUR LUSUS, fIRST, bEFORE i COULD APPROACH YOU WITH THIS OFFER OF PROBATION, oR AS YOU WOULD SAY, iN YOUR STUPID QUIRK, pRO88ION,  
AT: sINCE YOU'VE TOLD ME, mANY TIMES, tHAT i SHOULD FOCUS ON THE BOTTOM LINE,  
AG: YOU DID WH8???????? I can't 8elieve this!  
AG: If rumors are to 8e 8elieved, you were too w8k to k8ll ME when I 8SKED you to!  
AT: iT TURNS OUT, tHAT i AM NOT PARTICULARLY, pERSONALLY ATTACHED TO YOUR LUSUS,  
AT: aND MY AUSPISTICE, rEMINDED ME THAT AS LONG AS SPIDERMOM, wAS WEAVING THESE SHITTY WEBS, aROUND YOU,  
AT: i MIGHT AS WELL BE ATTEMPTING, tO GET DOWN WITH AN IMPERIAL DRONE, wHICH IS TO SAY, yOU SIMPLY WEREN'T CAPABLE OF THE RIGHT KIND OF HOSTILITY, }:/  
AG: Wh8 the fuck are you t8lking a8out?  
AG: Your auspistice? 8re you trying to impress me with your ashen score? Could you even g8 more full of shit th8n this!!!!!!!!  
AT: yOUR ESTIMATION, oF MY TENDENCY TO MAKE THINGS UP, hAS ALWAYS BEEN SOMEWHAT EXAGGERATED,  
AT: eVEN WHEN IT'S IN YOUR BEST INTEREST, tO BELIEVE THAT i'M TELLING THE TRUTH, wITHOUT RESORTING TO SENDING PHOTOS OF YOUR TRULY DEAD LUSUS TO YOUR SLAPCHAT,  
AG: Ugh, I'm so 8ored of wrigglers with Orphaner delusions it's nause8ing. What m8kes you think you can get aw8 with this????????  
AT: iT CONVENIENTLY HAPPENS, tHAT BY FLARP BY-LAW 807.1B, a PLAYER WHO HAS CHEATED, bY ACTING OUTSIDE OF GAME CONSTRAINTS, tO GET AHEAD,  
AT: oWES A FORFEIT, wHICH MAY BE PAID, bY THE LIFE OF HER LUSUS,  
AG: So Terezi D8D put you up to this. Is SHE........  
AT: nO, wE'RE NOT ASHEN, sHE JUST HELPED FIGURE OUT LEGAL DETAILS,  
AT: tHE FUNDAMENTALS OF THE PLAN, wERE OF MY OWN CONSTRUCTION,  
AT: bUT YES, i HAD SUPPORT, wHICH IS NOT WRONG, oR EMBARRASSING,  
AT: iT TURNS OUT, fRIENDS CAN BE HELPFUL, oF THEIR OWN FREE WILL, aND ALSO THEY ARE EASIER TO KEEP, wHEN NO ONE IS TRYING, tO MAKE THEM INTO LUNCH,  
AT: aND, iT'S HARD TO TELL, bUT i THINK SPIDERMOM AGREED THAT IT WAS BEST FOR YOU, iN THE END,  
AG: Oh my g8d, you are soooooooo em8arrassing. Shitty low8lood pl8titudes? Is th8 wh8 you have to say for yourself?  
AG: Tavros, you could have 8enefited so much from just 8eing my ally and su8ordinate! Why would you 8etr8y me? D::::  
AT: i WOULD THINK, tHAT IT WAS OBVIOUS BY NOW, bUT YOU DO NOT ALWAYS SEEM TO PICK UP, oN THE OBVIOUS,  
AT: a TEDIOUS TENDENCY, wHICH i AM GOING TO HERETOFORE ENCOURAGE YOU TO CHANGE, pOSSIBLY VIA, wHAT SOLLUX CALLS PERCUSSIVE MAINTENANCE,  
AT: aLONG WITH YOUR UNWILLINGNESS, tO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY, fOR YOUR OWN SHIT, sUCH AS YOUR LUSUS PROBLEM,  
AG: Now you're just being a hypocr8! YOU'RE letting others do the work for you!  
AT: iN ALL CASES, tHEY OFFERED OR, i ASKED,  
AT: tHAT TURNS OUT TO BE, aN ESSENTIAL ASPECT OF THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP, }:)  
AT: aND ANY NUMBER OF US, wOULD HAVE DONE IT GLADLY, iF YOU HADN'T BEEN TOO CLUCKBEAST TO INQUIRE,  
AT: rATHER THAN ME, bEING IRONICALLY, tHE ONLY ONE WILLING TO STEP UP, bECAUSE i HAVE ENOUGH ANTIPATHY TOWARD YOU, tO CARE, <3<  
AG: 8h8h8h8! Look at you!!!!!!!!  
AG: W8ving your little sp8des around at me like you even know that means! Playing along with a 8unch of losers and their m8de up g8me 8ecause you think it will m8ke them liiiiiiiike you ::::)  
AG: Can't you hear them laughing 8ehind your 8ack? I taught you 8etter than this!  
AG: Since you've t8ken c8re of my responsi8ilities, I have ALLLLLLLL the time in the world to g8t 8ack 8t you and your ridiculous 8and of "fr8nds!" ALL of them!  
AG: Now 8xcuse me, I have important 8usiness to finish!  
AT: wHICH WOULD BE, wHAT EXACTLY, ?  
AG: M8king sure you 8r8ts never pull this stunt ag8n, to 8egin with!  
AG: And then...  
AG: Well, then you won't 8e in any position to c8re, will you? ::::)  
AT: oK, bUT THE THING IS, tHAT i'M TAKING A GAMBLE, yOU SHOULD KNOW ALL ABOUT THAT,  
AT: eXCEPT, tHAT UNLIKE MOST OF YOURS, i THINK IT'S A PRETTY SMART BET,  
AT: tHAT YOU AREN'T ACTUALLY WILLING TO TAKE ON TEN TROLLS, wITH MORE BATTLE EXPERIENCE BETWEEN US THAN YOU COULD DREAM OF,  
AT: wHO WOULD ALL CULL YOU AS SOON AS LOOK AT YOU, eXCEPT ME,  
AT: yOU'RE PRETTY FUCKED UP, eVEN i ACKNOWLEDGE THAT, bUT i DON'T THINK YOU'RE SUICIDAL,  
AT: aND WHY WASTE YOUR NEW FREEDOM, oN SUCH A TINY AMBITION, wHEN YOU CAN DO, jUST ABOUT ANYTHING,  
AT: i BELIEVE, tHE VRISKA i'M DOING THIS FOR, wOULD CALL THAT, "8ooooooooring",  
AG: ...May8e you've got a point. Maaaaaaaay8e.  
AG: 8ut on the other h8nd I also don't h8ve to listen to your hoof8eastshit to get out of this. You know that, r8?  
AG: Now th8 we have a ch8 open……..  
AT: wELL, yOU SEE, i ACTUALLY PAY ATTENTION, tO THE DETAILS OF MY PLANS,  
AT: sO YES, yOU COULD CONTROL ME LONG ENOUGH, tO MAKE THE ROARBEASTS, lOSE INTEREST, bUT I HAPPEN TO KNOW, tHAT YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME AND NEPETA, aT THE SAME TIME,  
AT: aND SHE WOULD NOTICE, aND WOULD MOVE TO CONTAIN YOU,   
AT: aND IF YOU CHOSE TO CONTROL HER INSTEAD, i WOULD STILL HAVE THE ROARBEASTS,  
AT: nEED I GO ON?, i'M PRETTY GOOD AT, sTRATEGY GAMES, aS IT TURNS OUT,  
AG: Oh, just shut the fuck up!!!!!!!!  
AT: oKAY,  
AG: ........  
AG: Uuuuuuuugh, it's o8vious I meant th8 rh8orically.  
AG: Tavros N8ram, you are H8RRI8LE. D::::  
AT: tHANK YOU, iT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THE OBVIOUS, fOR ONCE,  
AT: tHIS NEEDS, tO ACTUALLY END,  
AT: wE CAN'T GET ANYTHING SERIOUS DONE, wHILE WORRYING ABOUT SUPPOSED ALLIES, sTABBING US IN THE BACK,  
AT: sO ARE YOU READY, fOR THE BIG TIME,   
AT: bECAUSE IF YOU ARE, aLL YOU HAVE TO DO, iS NOT KILL US OR RODENT US OUT, wHICH SEEMS LIKE IT SHOULD BE RELATIVELY SIMPLE,  
AT: bUT THIS IS YOU WE'RE TALKING ABOUT, sO i HAVE PREPARED, yOUR REMEDIAL LESSONS,  
AG: I 8et you want me to cave in and apologize for wh8 I did, or something.  
AG: I was just trying to improve you. You know th8.   
AT: yES, i KNOW EVERY VERSION OF YOUR FAVORITE, fALSE APOLOGY,  
AT: pROBABLY BETTER, tHAN YOU DO, sINCE i REMEMBER THE GAME, aND ACTUALLY WE HUNG OUT QUITE A LOT, dURING IT,  
AT: aND i HAD EVERY OPPORTUNITY, tO CONSIDER YOUR EXCUSES, aND DECIDE THAT ACTUALLY i STILL PREFERRED HAVING, lEGS THAT WORKED, }:(  
AG: 8esides, Sp8dermom would have 8een just as happy to have 8 you.  
AG: To 8e honest, 8's kind of a relief.   
AG: 8ut I don't know wh8 I'm going to do without all th8 hanging over my head all the time.   
AT: wELL, aVOIDING GETTING KILLED SEEMS LIKE, iT MIGHT KEEP YOU 8USY,  
AT: cONSIDERING, iT WILL BE DIFFICULT TO CONVINCE THE OTHERS, tHAT YOU CAN BE TRUSTWORTHY,  
AT: bUT, i bELIEVE IN YOU, vRISKA, i AM WILLING TO IMPROVE YOU,  
AT: aND MY TECHNIQUE, iS SUPERIOR, iN THAT YOU CAN EVEN, kEEP YOUR LEGS,   
AT: aT LEAST IF YOU QUIT WITH THE, ~dESPER8 MANIPUL8TION SCHEMES~, lONG ENOUGH TO FOLLOW DIRECTIONS,  
AT: wHICH IS A NEW SKILL FOR YOU, bUT, yOU'RE SUCH AN ADVOCATE FOR LEARNING UNDER PRESSURE,  
AT: tHAT I TRUST YOU'LL FIND THE ABILITY, }:)  
AG: You 8re one stone-cold fucking jerk!!!!!!!!   
AT: rEALLY?, tHANKS, i HATE YOU TOO,   
AT: tHE OTHERS, tELL ME I AM BEING, oVERLY SENTIMENTAL,  
AT: bUT I JUST FELT, iT WAS FAIR TO GIVE YOU A CHANCE, bEFORE WRITING YOU OFF AS A TOTAL LOSS,  
AT: tHOUGH I AM PREPARED, tO DO SO, iF I HAVE TO, bECAUSE I DON'T LIKE, mAKING THE SAME MISTAKES I'VE ALREADY MADE, aND I REMEMBER THEM, eVEN IF YOU DON'T, }:(

From where you sit, reading the logs after the fact, you kind of agree with Vriska for once. This is pretty damn stone-cold for Tavros. And as much as you have no stomach for it, you kind of wish VK was out of the picture - but you also feel an odd chill when you read those words, like the direction of the wind changing, like a magnetic field inverting. That. That change in him, it's like it hits a resonance frequency with the vision that's still hovering there too enormous to see; like your attention has been called to a sign tacked over the world, scrawled _History In Progress_ , and you wonder if Aradia is watching, was watching this as it happened.

  
AG: Ok8y, you high 8nd m8ghty dirt-c8ste 8sshole. I get the point! You know things I don't, you're going to w8ve them over my horns like a p8ir of Fidusp8wn pr8nt undershorts, 8lah, 8lah, just tell me wh8t I have to DO to g8 OUT of this!!!!!!!!  
AT: yES, cERTAINLY,  
AT: jUST OPEN THE CURRENT MEMO, iN tROLLIAN, aND TYPE, "i'VE BEEN SCHOOLFED",  
AT: mAYBE THAT, wILL BE A GOOD START, fOR GETTING EVERYONE TO TAKE YOU BACK, iNTO THEIR CONFIDENCES,  
AG: Stoooooooop!  
AT: sTOP WHAT,  
AG: Stop m8king them growl! I get the point alre8dy!!!!!!!!  
AG: Gahhhhhhhh you cr8zy cre8ture g8t your claws out of my tree!  
AG: Tell them to knock it off!!!!!!!!  
AT: wHO ME,  
AG: Ok8y, ok8yyyyyyyy! F8ne!!!!!!!!  
AG: 8ut we 8re. Going to discuss this. 8t length.  
AT: tHAT WAS, tHE GENERAL IDEA, yES,

~~~

PAST twinArmageddons [PTA] 16 HOURS AGO opened memo on board thii2 memo ii2 not genuiinely 2ecure you nookfart2, watch your 2hiit.

PTA: ok guy2, iit'2 a memo.  
PTA: ii'm doiing thii2 on reque2t, a2 you can tell from the 2ubject liine ii'm not very happy about iit.  
PTA: trolliian'2 tiime-related functiion2 have a backdoor buiilt iin, a2 far a2 ii can tell, 2o don't 2ay anythiing here that you wouldn't be happy two 2kywriite acro22 the moon2.

FUTURE terminallyCapricious [FTC] 6120 HOURS FROM NOW responded to memo.  
FTC: so this wicked business goes back a good long while.  
FTC: AND ALL THIS TIME I WAS BEING A WASTED-ASS MOTHERFUCKER STARING INTO A SOPOR PIE.  
FTC: ain't no time like the present except maybe the past or the future. funny how it works like that.

FUTURE carcinoGeneticist [FCG] 4130 HOURS FROM NOW responded to memo.  
FCG: AS MUCH AS IT KILLS ME TO SAY SO, SOLLUX IS CORRECT ABOUT THE SECURITY LEVEL OF THE MEMO.  
FCG: ...WAIT, I'M GONNA NEED TO ASK YOU SOME QUESTIONS. IN PERSON, BECAUSE I DON'T THINK WE'VE TALKED ABOUT THIS YET.  
FCG: I'M NOT SURE I'M CAPABLE OF BEING MORE VAGUE THAN THAT. YOU PROBABLY THINK I'M GOING TO TELL YOU SOME JUICY RELATIONSHIP GOSSIP. HOW ABOUT YOU GO ON THINKING THAT FOR NOW?  
FTC: NO, MAN, I GET YOUR DRIFT.  
FTC: did you think i was gonna spill the beans?  
FTC: AIN'T NO FUCKING WAY I WOULD NARC ON MY PALEBRO. :o)  
FCG: THAT WAS EITHER ASTOUNDINGLY PRESUMPTUOUS OR A HUGE FUCKING SPOILER.  
FCG: ...I'M COMING OVER THERE NOW. BUT THEN YOU KNEW THAT, BECAUSE YOU'RE A COUPLE PERIGEES AHEAD OF ME.   
FCG: THIS SHIT MAKES MY HEAD HURT.  
FCG banned FTC from responding to memo.  
FCG banned himself from responding to memo. 

CURRENT arachnidsGrip [CAG] RIGHT NOW responded to memo.  
CAG: I've 8een schoolf8d.  
CAG: 8re you h8ppy now?  
CAG banned herself from responding to memo. 

CURRENT caligulasAquarium [CCA] RIGHT NOW responded to memo.  
CCA: kan you owwe me fivve boonbucks  
CURRENT grimAuxiliatrix [CGA] RIGHT NOW responded to memo.  
CGA: I Never Said I Was Taking The Bet


	6. you are warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CA: i cant get in touch wwith kar   
>  CA: im serious though kan hasnt heard from him since four nights ago an if you check timestamps on your paranoid fuckin cereal box spy goggles i bet he hasnt said anythin to anyone else neither
> 
>  
> 
> Karkat gets cold feet. Sollux warms them up for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: Karkat-typical language, caliginous sex with non-zero amounts of blood and tears, just a lot of mess in general, and hella awkward quadrant interactions.

You set the memo to ping you if anyone as much as coughs the wrong way, then dive gratefully back into your coding. The Imperial cybersecurity infrastructure is a tweetbeast's nest of redundancy, often with notes in dialects that no one has spoken for centuries, and you're probably going to die of an apoplectic reaction to shitty code and distracting side projects but at least it's not... whatever the hell just happened with VK. Your surveillance program alerts you to a few false alarms, mostly your friends' comings and goings, but not a word from KK since the memo. You try not to worry about it; he's sulking and you have work to do.

It took Eridan Ampora trolling you to get you to pay attention:

CA: sol  
CA: hey sol you lemony lout wwhy arent you answwerin me  
CA: sol you gotta do somethin  
TA: why ye2, ii gotta do a lot of thiing2 and am iin fact doiing them riight now.  
TA: ii had two temporariily 2u2pend my ab2olutely bada22 lot2 of thiing2 operatiion2 two an2wer your 2tupiid trolliian me22age a2 a matter of fact, 2o what the fuck ii2 2o iimportant?  
CA: its serious man i cant get in touch wwith kar  
TA: have you giiven con2iideratiion two the po22iibiiliity that kk miight have a liife beyond the ciircumference of your 2hiitty cape2?  
TA: maybe he ju2t doe2n't liike you enough two bother, who know2.  
CA: you dont or youd be rubbin it in a lot wworse than that   
CA: i wwasnt hatched last night sol  
CA: im serious though kan hasnt heard from him since four nights ago an if you check timestamps on your paranoid fuckin cereal box spy goggles i bet he hasnt said anythin to anyone else neither  
TA: thank you for the iinfo, creepy mccreepertroll, ii'll look iintwo iit.  
twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]

Shit. What if they _got_ him.

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]  
TA: 2eriiou2ly, ii'll look iintwo iit.  
twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling caligulasAquarium [CA]

You barricade yourself in a virtual fortress of encryption before daring to actually _think_ about what's scaring you. You've been working on cracking sat-cam feeds, and this gives you an excuse to learn their language more thoroughly; the way you cover your tracks, if it doesn't hold up to scrutiny, will get a sad-sack troll across the continent culled before they come for you. (Anyone who brags online about entrapping their lowblood friend into servitude… well, let's just say you have a group of unwilling and unwitting beta testers for the rootkits you write in your, haha, spare time.) 

KK's webcam is taped over – like you _told_ him to, fuck, you're an idiot – or this tracking operation would have been over practically before it started. But nothing you can turn up points to disaster either. The most recent pass of the sat-cams over KK's hive shows an undisturbed lawnring and drawn shades, and your tracking bug in his husktop pulls up the usual history of news feeds and casual games. It's almost _too_ normal, you're going to have to go over there – or send someone, but everyone else who could do the job is either far away or about as stealthy as a trunkbeast in a living block – and you're about to when a loud clatter blares through your speakers, followed by _STEAMING RANCID SHIT ON A NUTRITION PLATEAU, I GIVE THE FUCK UP ON SICKLEKIND, IS THERE A FUCKING-MICROSCOPIC-BLUNT-SHITTY-HORNKIND SPECIBUS OR WOULD MY STRIFE PORTFOLIO JUST LAUGH AT ME AND SPIT IT OUT, TIME TO FIND OUT –_

Relief just barely wins out over chagrin. 

And you _are_ going over there, but at least you know what to expect.

~~~

It takes him too-long moments to answer the hiveportal bell, moments in which you consider if you could have been wrong: maybe someone recorded him - no, that's - 

Familiar aggressive footfalls sound from the other side of the hiveportal, but it doesn't open. "GO AWAY!" Karkat's voice shouts from the other side: distinctively _not_ a recording, and loud enough to actually shake the door.

"Hell no," you growl. "You got me out of my fucking computer chair, I want _confetti_ , ok."

KK's door doesn't budge; his voice is hoarse like he's been shouting even more than usual, or crying, or not talking at all. "Well, you'll have to settle for a parade back to your dumb coding throne accompanied by a sweet serenade of 'go fuck yourself's for the blissfully short time you'll be in earshot of my lawnring. _Go away_."

"You'll have to yell louder, I can't hear you with your head shoved so far up your waste chute. I promise I won't make you cram a party hat down over the misplaced grubscars you call horns if you open the fucking hiveportal before I start _every_ digital device in there playing Troll Rick Astley in unison."

The hiveportal swings open a crack. Between a couple of sturdy chains holding the door mostly closed you catch a glimpse of KK's living block, dim but not much messier than always, before the view is blocked by KK glowering out at you, hair in sweaty disarray, the usual dark smudges under his eyes deepened into purplish half-moons. "Go away before I – you know what, no, I'm not in the mood for another exploding husktop competition right now. Come back tomorrow night or something. Fuck."

"...and I thought I was the moody one. Are you actually going to be here and willing to talk if I come back tomorrow night? Why not explain yourself and get it over with? You scared the living shit out of us, KK. If you'd really rather I take the time to come up with a proper revenge for that, I _will_ , but…"

"No, you've got important shit to do. You might as well yell at me now and save yourself some time." No matter how many times it happens it's still a punch in the gut seeing KK go from hackles-raised pissed off to totally deflated so quickly. He fumbles with the latches and the chains on the door swing aside. "And I'm not being _moody_. Maybe I'm actually being reasonable for once in my heinous waste of a life."

"Oh god." You know a bad sign when you hear it. You slip in and click the door shut behind you, re-bolting it automatically. "Do you even need me to remind you what you'd say if _I_ started sounding like that?"

Karkat steps back out of your space, actually winces when the bolt clicks. "No, when _you_ sound like – whatever the fuck it is you think I sound like – it's because you've just had the exact same epiphany about how much you suck for the millionth time. My awareness of my virtually limitless shortcomings doesn't fluctuate with the weather or what I had for breakfast. I meant –" He hesitates, arms crossed tightly over his chest – "I meant about this _thing_ we're starting."

"What _about_ it," you say, dubious. 

"I'm not sure about this. As embarrassing as this is to say, I'm - it's -" He stammers for a moment. "This is too big. It's so goddamn audacious I feel like my head's going to explode, if someone else doesn't explode it for me first."

"That didn't stop you from playing a game tied to the end of the universe." You're still too near to the hiveportal to be having this conversation, even though you locked both of his deadbolts with your mind and now have psionics deployed searching across his lawnring in pulses, listening, and you take the excuse to step closer into Karkat's space, hiss-whispering, inches from his eyes with the beginnings of forbidden color seeping into them until he has to cross them to look at you.

"Maybe that's where I learned what biting off more than I can chew looks like," he spits almost talking over you, and he's defensive but not backing away, shoulders hunched and rigid. "The shit going down with Vriska - my ten foot pole doesn't want to touch it with _its_ ten foot pole. And it got me started thinking, and -"

"Always a bad idea." Despite yourself, you snicker a little at your own cheap shot.

"Shut up. It got me started thinking and I'm not sure I know how to handle this at _all_ , this is not just games for girls this is games for half-ton seadwellers on stimulant binges, aka _not us_. We are nowhere near _equipped_ -"

"We're better equipped than anyone has been before. It's us or no one." Maybe you sound desperate but you're also right.

But Karkat is jumping on that strained note in your voice, sneering, "And you won't _tell_ me why you think so. That's really reassuring -"

A crisis of faith is not the right time to tell KK about Astris, but you start ticking off other reasons on your fingers. "For starters, we _do_ have seadwellers - _and_ lowbloods, we're all over the hemospectrum, none of the famous failures were. More people have reason to believe in our legitimacy and lend their support."

"Assuming we even _get_ that far."

" _Are_ you going to betray us?" You flare your eyes and crackle around your horns, not that cheap special effects help your case but that you're fed up and don't care if he knows it and this time when you step forward, half-floating, he does stumble a short step back into his living block –

"No, but -" He's off-balance, voice wavering like someone winded from a blow, anger a delayed reaction but beginning –

"Wishy-washy is not an option here, KK," you cut him off, "Passive is not an option."

And Karkat is growling, "Oh, that's rich coming from _you_ -"

"But you have to lead us. And the tiniest slip could fuck us all over permanently."

"Is that your creepy prophetic voices talking?" he scoffs, and fuck if you're going to let him keep standing there and pretending not to take this seriously when he damn well _knows_ , and your fingers are curving rigid with seething frustration, claws outstretched.

"No, it's the voice of _common fucking sense_. Like you said, this is not a FLARP game, it's something bigger - and you can be scared all you like in private but you _cannot_ get lazy, you cannot be halfway committed -" You're uncomfortably aware that your voice is cracking a little, and okay, _maybe_ these are things you sometimes don't want to look at yourself, you're _tired_ of constant vigilance and it's only going to get worse.

Karkat _sees_ , he catches the slip, and he takes the opportunity to jeer, "I guess it's double or nothing?"

You have him by the collar before you can think about it, and you're growling low in your throat, filled with rage and suddenly lightheaded; if this isn't a classic leading-with-your-bulge moment nothing is, it's twitching and trying to unsheath in your pants and your hands are crackling with a faint buzz of psionics and the air feels thicker around you - "Fuck, KK, _really_ , do you really have to go there -"

"You tell me," he hisses out, "it's not like _I'm_ the one who's been flaky as a bowl of grain-based breakfast product until now."

"Like hell you haven't, you're a clusterfuck of hot and cold running sexual hangups and oh-Sollux-put-your-bulge-in-me-but-don't- _look_ -"

He shoves you back, for that one, not just shoves but presses his thumbs to your collarbones in a way that reminds you of what an excellent fighter he actually is; you can _feel_ the leverage in his grip, feel how if he shifted and pressed harder he'd break a bone and you could stop him with your powers but you know he _won't_ , and it turns you on so much you stop breathing for a moment. And then he laughs. "Look at you going all floppy and docile, you're so _easy_ , you just want me to do all the work."

Quite a lot of the time that's true; more than you'd care to admit, but not this time, and it can't keep being that way, and you need something else now, and when you speak your voice comes out quiet but _not_ docile, a whispered growl - "You're taunting me because you don't want to admit how much it gets to you," you say with dead certainty, and the way his cheeks flush in answer is what you were looking for. You let a pulse of power crackle out from your hand clenched in his shirt collar, warning and goading, and now _he's_ the one going still and pliant in your grasp.

"Ablution trap," he gasps out, and it's not like his ablution block lacks for positive associations but it still makes you suddenly _furious_ , you _just_ called him on his hangups and here he is giving you the same old hoofbeastshit and you're not going to back out and you're _definitely_ not going to throw a shit-fit about where you have to fuck. And you know what you're going to do to him now, and it makes you nervous-dizzy, anticipating the vicious satisfaction - he hasn't been ready and maybe you haven't been ready, but now you _are_ \- and you're scrambling for the ablution block shucking off clothing like the pair of horny adolescents you are, nearly tripping over discarded sweaters and videohusks. You grab at his hips and shoulders with psionics, to catch you both from careening into the floor and just because you can, as KK snarls and shoves back and knocks your horns together crackling-painful and ringing straight down your spine.

He won't take off his boxers until he's in the trap with the light off, but you manage to cop a feel on the way there and he actually squeaks when you grip his bulge between two fingers through his shorts - fully unsheathed and slippery and squirming under your hand and you're growling continuously, nearly throwing both of you into the ablution block and slamming the door with a burst of excess force that cascades sparks down to the floor. No matter what he thinks he's hiding you can see the red smears across the front of his boxers where your fingers pressed in, and you mouth at his jaw fangy and sloppy and rumbling in a heap of limbs against the wall.

Karkat reaches, snaps the light off and you let him. Watching, waiting, deliberate, pressing a shell of soundproof stillness up against the walls and the blockportal, and if he sees the flare of power he'll take it for excitement - he strips down fast and sloppy in the dark and he knows you're aware of his blood color, damn it, he hasn't been hiding anything for a long time except from himself, and you're not going to keep doing this. Well. You're going to keep doing _some_ of this, but not the letting Karkat hide from himself part. Your hands chase over his body and find his bulge again, uncovered this time, and he moans into your mouth and you reach out with a tiny careful flicker of telekinesis and the light goes on.

Karkat bites your tongue, hard, fast enough that you know it's a reflex, stumbles back a step and snarls at you, wordless at first then "I know what you're doing, asshole, where do you get off –"

"I _will_ stop if you tell me to, I will turn around and snap the damn light off and leave you standing here frustrated in the dark, and never tell anyone, and we'll _still be friends_ ," and you say it like it's a threat, so he knows you mean it - "just say the word, KK, _does this go further or does it stop here_ -"

He's standing in the ablution trap eyes wide and bloodpusher pounding so hard you can feel it in his bright red bulge when it coils and clutches around your fingers, and in between little grunting dazed moans manages, "Do your worst, you fucking bulgetease, or are you losing your nerve?" 

And you reach out your other hand and sink your clawtips into his thigh and he makes this tiny noise of shock, but his bulge squirms harder. 

You just want to memorize the look on his face, carve it into some cheerfully victorious part of your brain and keep it there to set you on fire on a night when you’re feeling dead inside. So _scared_ at the sight of his own blood on your claws and blown-open and panting and - “You’re frightened,” you say, and he stills, like not moving is going to remove the threat - “You’re not scared of me, though. No. You’re scared shitless of yourself.”

And you dig your claws in, scrape a line down his thigh that wells with bright-red blood, while he squirms and moans, arcing his back up and snarling in frustration like he's trying to lose himself when you want him _here_ and he just doesn't _get_ it yet. “Karkat fucking Vantas,” you say, “you’re scary as hell or I wouldn’t be here pailing you. You stupid little shit. You’re afraid of yourself because your very existence is frightening.”

He sputters at you, mouthing the word _existence_ like he’s going to mock your speech impediment again and you are _so done_ and you shove your hand into his mouth, dripping with his genetic fluid, and he mmmphs around it and bites you hard enough that it’s gonna leave a mark. “But you’re even scarier when you _actually bring your force to bear on something._ Shit falls _down_. Hives and enemies and empires.”

And the sound he makes trying to yell back at you around your hand afraid, afraid and _angry_ and confused, growl-whining until the bones of your fingers vibrate in his mouth –

“Yes, I said it. Gonna cull me? I’m committing treason right now,” you say, and you push two knuckles into his nook and he just _wails_ around your other hand. “I’m committing treason by enabling you to exist.”

You take your hand out of his mouth to shift position, briefly, and he manages to choke out, “Dispensations -”

“Are part of the fucking smokescreen. Even if you did get to live. What about me, Karkat? What about me? What about _FF_? And I have to fucking _see_ all this garbage and know that you’re going to need to be an active part of this or we won’t make it and you. just. haven’t. been. listening. Look at yourself.” He’s crying now too - you’re a mess of your own blood and his and his genetic fluid and his bulge is twitching and curling so hard you think he’s going to come as soon as you’re in him, and you reach up and paint him all over his chest with the fluids he’s been so carefully, ridiculously trying to prevent you from seeing. “Look at you,” you pant at him, “So pathetic I’d flip flushed for you if I didn’t already _have_ a flushed quadrant.”

He goes silent suddenly, stammers out - “When did you - who -”

“Wouldn’t you just like to know. I _hate_ you, god, you little _shit_ , why do you think we haven’t been in a quadrant before this, it’s because you’ve been too cluckbeast to _deal_ with yourself.”

Karkat's entire face is flushed ruddy-garish with pailing and crying, the thread of a tear-inflamed capillary in his eye running mutant red that even contacts wouldn't cover, and he's hissing and scrabbling at your wrist with his claws and you're angry and triumphant, but not cold with it, warm to white-hot in your core. He's glorious like this, and he's giving way to you but not _easily_ and you want to be stained all over with his brilliant color, you hate him in all his self-disgust and his cowardice and want to ignite him inside until he burns away everything in him that flinches. "I'm going to make you splatter that fucking color over me until you can't _remember_ that you can't stand it," you grate out in his ear, and he's beyond protesting or making fun of your speech impediment, he just moans low and desperate and nods his head - you're nicking his lips with your fangs, licking tears off his face with your tongue. You pull him to you, roughly, rutting up against his thighs, and he mutters something half-intelligible and it's almost impossible to stop moving but you do, just barely, your bulge still trembling and flicking and questing toward him. "What was that? You're gonna have to repeat it, I didn't hear you -"

And Karkat lets out this beautiful multisyllabic _pleeeeaase_ that wavers in the middle with sobbing, and you curl your hand around his bulge and stop restraining your own, let one tip nestle in - you can manage both, though it's a tight squeeze, but he's already so incredibly slick and as soon as you're halfway in he's going rigid all over and clinging to you like he's afraid of falling over, his bulge spurting and dribbling bright red all over your hand and you make him look at it, lift your hand and lick it off your fingers, salty and slippery and he cries out like he can't bear it but just holds you tighter and oh _god_ the way his nook contracts around you, you shudder hard and almost lose it right there - but you're not _done_. You just want to take him apart and not think about it but there was a point you were making.

"Best possible treason," you whisper in his ear, " _hottest_ fucking treason -" and he yelps and his eyes roll back in his head as another pulse of bright red wrings out of him all over your stomach and you guide your other tendril in, shove deep, press and coil and brace heavy leaning forward against the walls of the ablution trap with his legs clenched around you still shaking. You're holding him up with psionics now, your own muscles on the verge of giving out and you lean forward, dig lines into the skin of his shoulder with your fangs, something he's never let you do even after he must have known that you knew about his uncanny blood, and you thought he was done coming but he's _not_ , he's writhing and twisting in your grip and sobbing near-silent breathless and clamping down on your bulge flooded-wet and so viselike you see prickles of light that don't come from your psionics - and that, oh, you're going to replay that forever in your head, it does you in, exquisite tremors all through your bulge that you feel all the way to your nook without so much as a finger touching you there, and you gasp and pant until you're lightheaded and tingling, sinking to your knees with him still wrapped around you, slumping against the wall of the trap.

~~~

Later, in the recuperacoon, you fade into dream still woozy and thick-tongued with sleep – you really need to get KK to change his sopor when you wake; the evening will be a mess of hassling KK into mending bridges with everyone while catching up with nearly a night's worth of your own missed work – until a bruise on your neck throbs, not under the sopor but on your dream-body, in the dreamt-together version of your hive, and your eyes jolt open and you're _there_.

Astris is still materializing too, standing in front of you, steadying himself by the hand on your shoulder, and you go still again. "Hey," he says softly, eyes crystallizing into brightness, shadows settling around the folds of his clothing. "You're here – wait. _What happened_?"

"I - nothing _bad_ ," you tell him first, reassuring, and then you try to formulate a better answer in your mind, which leads to blushing hot as a miniature sun. "Caliginous things," no, that sounds dumb but it sure as hell just came out your mouth and now your face must look like an ochre paintpot. Fragments of the caliginous things that just happened are spilling through your mind, sopor-groggy and disoriented. 

Astris clasps a hand over his mouth with a _pfff_ of air, his eyes pulsing brighter and crinkled up at the corners, before a chuckle manages to escape and he flops back on the couch. "Him? Really? I mean, that's great, but also – eheheh –"

That raises your hackles a bit. You're already answering, off-guard, "Hey, I may have epically bad judgment in some respects, but my romantic tastes are unimpeachable," by the time it occurs to you that's not what he _meant_. Well, the stealth compliment isn't a bad thing, anyway. 

"I appreciate the sentiment – heh – sorry." He wipes at his eye with the back of his hand. "Are... things going to be OK between you? You aren't – you know – ?" Astris pulls the frustrated face that you've come to associate with him forgetting a word and makes a dramatic gesture over his head, opening his hands and pulling them apart like he's miming something exploding.

"...naw, I'm sleeping in his recuperacoon right now, he's been my best hatefriend for _ages_ , it's just... more official." You're still blushing, damn it. "I'm probably gonna wake up with a bulge drawn on my forehead but... we got here because we trust each other to call bullshit when there's a lot at stake."

Astris' face is nearly as yellow as yours from laughter, but he's calmed down enough to tug at you with psionics, pulling you down toward him on the couch. "And I'm... only freaking out a little. I think if it was anyone else I might be – well, freaking out a lot. You look like a woofbeast's chew toy." It's odd to be having this conversation without actually mentioning Karkat's name or his ancestor's, and that thought must have been Astris' as well as yours because he blurts out, "This is so strange."

"I'd ask which part you meant, but... I'm not sure that's a useful question." You're getting your equilibrium back, starting to laugh a little too. "I uh. Definitely enjoyed getting like this. Sorry if that's too much information."

"Uhhh." Astris starts out like he's going to try to answer your question anyway, then – no, he isn't laughing anymore but he's still getting yellower, definitely blushing. "Not really, I think I misplaced my threshold for 'too much information' somewhere, just... be _careful_." He wraps a hand around one of your larger horns and tilts your head to the side, baring the bruises along your neck to warm precise kisses that trail up gradually until he's purring right into your ear. "Still mine," he rumbles, his face so close to your skin that you can feel him flushing hotter.

Twice in one night is a lot, but being with Astris is everything that being with Karkat is not, too, a counterweight, balancing you, reaffirming your bond, softness and light and completion - you need this, and you don't quite forget where you are, but you don't bother to quite _remember_ it, either, until Astris fades from view once more, and -

"What the _fuck_." A splatter of something slimy hits your cheek: Karkat's too-thin sopor, by the way it drips down your face in gross sticky rivulets. "Sollux, what the fuck, _ewww_ , get out –" More splashing and then a bigger slosh and by the time you open your eyes it's pretty clear that Karkat has gotten out instead, standing next to the recuperacoon naked except for globs of sopor and glowering at you like he's never seen genetic material before.

Your actual voice is a little bit sleep-rusty, which is good because it means you haven't been vocalizing _everything_. Small mercies. "...You didn't seem to mind my geneslurry last night." And you're awake enough to backtalk. Not that you need to be all that awake to backtalk.

"You weren't getting it in my sopor last night, smartass! Between that and the miniature Troll Tesla coil act, _yeah_ , I kind of mind. The absolute last thing I need is you reenacting the experiment in _In Which An Eccentric Scienterrorist Creates An Eponymous Monster, Etc_ , on my recuperacoon in the middle of the day. 'It's alive!'" He forms his hand into a claw and shakes it around in an attempt to illustrate the film reference that mostly just winds up getting more sopor all over the place. "At least this was better than waking up to you screaming your cranial shell off again, my ear didn't work right for a week. Congratulations, your daymares have an upside, now you get to clean it up – wait a minute." He squints at you, one hand going to his hip where his sickles currently aren't. "There's – _things_ that cause vivid dreams. I swear on whatever the fuck we're supposed to be swearing on now that it isn't the Empire, if you're getting attacked by some asshole with chucklevoodoos or something and not asking the rest of us for help I'm going to cull you first before going after the fucker –"

You're awake enough to backtalk, but not to go a mile a minute like that. Being treated to one of his breathtaking surfactant-box rants first thing is surreal and leaves you feeling like you're unpicking thickly knit language to get the meanings out, and so you're silent for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Karkat turns bright red and growls at you. "...oh, fuck you. Yeah, this is so serious, one slip up and we're all gonna die, but the minute I call _you_ on shoring up your shit it's fucking funny –"

"...nah, man, I just know _exactly_ what happened just now, and you don't, that's all -" You're still not completely coherent. "Remember last night when I mentioned my flushed quadrant and you pulled this face?" You do an exaggerated impression of what he looked like. 

He pulls a much less pronounced version of the same face. "Possibly unlike your mystery matesprit – who, _remember_ , I didn't push you about last night because I'm not an incorrigible meddler like you, even though I'm in your quads and the info is probably my business – I'm not a fucking psychic. So at the risk of repeating myself, _what the fuck?_ "

"It is your business," you say, at the risk of sounding like a busted air blower. "You're just not going to _believe_ me - I'd have put it out there before now if I thought - but then again what with you going all science fiction double feature on me, maybe you _will_ -" 

"Look, I'm choosing to believe that you're not having some kind of sick pitch prank at my expense right now, because the Sollux I know may have his horns firmly lodged in his wastechute but hasn't quite contorted to _that_ level of pointless bullshit yet." Karkat takes a wary step forward, rests his hand on the edge of the recuperacoon like he halfway expects it to bite him. "The decision to stick around in Captor Bizarro World may have been truly bone-panned but here I am, I decided, and I'm not going to fuck off into the sunrise because you're unbelievably weird, so you might as well spit it out."

"Okay." You lever yourself out of the recuperacoon, because you're going to need to avail yourself of some grandiosity, and pacing helps. The fact that you're leaving wet sopor footprints behind you probably doesn't, but you can ignore that. You take a deep breath and look Karkat in the eyes. "First I'm going to ask how much you know about the Condesce's flagship," you say, "rumors included."

Karkat mumbles something to the effect that it's highly improper for a schoolfeeding examiner to drip sopor all over his sleeping block, squints at you for a moment like he still expects you to start laughing at him, then shrugs and replies. He sounds like a mash-up of his usual self and the obnoxious, simpering voice that narrates history schoolfeeds that would be hilarious pretty much anytime else. "The _Battleship Condescension_ is the vanguard for the expansion of the Empire, obviously. It's the fastest, most powerful, and most technologically advanced thing ever created by any species, so pretty much all Her Imperious Condescension has to do is cruise the flagship through a star system and most of the time the inhabitants accept the Empire in a big fucking hurry. The Subjugglators come afterward, but their ships are slower... fanatics on the threshecutioner-wannabe forums like to go on about how the terrifying grandeur of the Condesce's presence or whatever allows trolls around her to fight at twice their strength and even that She can bring back the dead to keep her ship running like that, but that's not even a listed ability, and some other hemoanonymous troll posted a theory that it was thirty powerful telekinetics in a chain array; I don't know much about this stuff but she seemed to know her math."

You give a weird strangled laugh that sounds a little too much like a sob, and try to cover it up by clearing your throat. Of course he doesn't know that particular almost-open secret, he's been reading the wrong rumors on the wrong forums because until just this last perigee he was on the wrong _side_. 

"...I can see why you think that, KK," you say, and you're grinning darkly and nearly whispering, smugly dismissing him just enough to make him lean closer and listen. "It's probably safer than the 'pan-busting reality. But I'm going to tell you about that reality anyway, because I hate your schoolfeed-regurgitating squawk blister so much you deserve to know." And maybe it's a little safer for you to talk about all this in your smug mastermind voice, because you're pretty sure you're going to cry in front of your kismesis eventually but not _tonight_ , damn it. "...So. When I told you to look into where helmsmen came from, how deep _did_ you dig?"

"None of the shit on the dark net made sense. It was all either calculators that were supposed to show what kind of ship you'd be assigned to or threads that started off with 'Ascension is shit for psionics,' 'no, Ascension is shit for everybody,' and wound up full of thousands of deleted posts and 'what happened?'s, but then there was some asshole trolling wrigglers who posted in yellow or under with a shitty manip of what looked like a bunch of dangling intestines and I uh... may have uninstalled Troll Onion Router for a few perigees after that. And then the game happened and I thought..." He makes a vague gesture toward the outside, everything that the meteors destroyed.

You're silent for a long moment, pacing and slopping sopor on the floor, trying to figure out where to begin. "...It's hard to get the story straight," you say finally. "But two things really helped me figure it out: the patent record and the history of the colonies. You know how the central expansion radius of the Empire suddenly got - more specifically, the _rate_ of expansion went up by a factor of ten, about a thousand sweeps ago?"

"Well, something else happened right around then - this one you have to be able to crack private files for, but the technology started changing. All of a sudden no one was building crude mechanical helm interfaces anymore; instead they were building support machinery for fully interfaced helmsmen. When I say _fully interfaced_ just... picture something along the lines of that 'shitty manip', okay, or imagine a horrorterror angling to get into a quadrant with your nervous system; biowire is some fucking serious business."

Karkat has gone very still, his face paling to sickly angel-white. "I think I put it together, that it was something like that," he says, suddenly hoarse, "And then, you know... didn't. Because there was _you_ , and Aradia –"

"I know, KK," you say, your voice a cold burn, "oh, I know, as much as it chafes I can't even blame you because I spent over a sweep deliberately avoiding obvious conclusions as much as possible. Until the daymares. And even after they started, for a while."

"...OK," KK wipes cold sweat and flaky sopor off his forehead, leaning heavily on the recuperacoon. "...Fuck, OK. You're being a cryptic fuck again about all this, you know that right, the daymares and the phantom matesprit and the starship stuff – wait, _fuck_." He stares at you like you've just told him there are four moons, then shakes his head. "...no, that doesn't make any goddamn sense. Tell me what the daymares have to do with this before I catch any more of your crazy."

You can't stay sardonic, talking about this; you're staring at your feet, your fingers fidgeting at your sides. "There were helmsmen, before, but not - not Helmsmen. That started when she enslaved him. He was the first, still the strongest - He has my sign, KK, my same mutations. He'd been crying out into nothingness for so long with no one hearing him that when I heard he didn't even recognize it at first -"

"How long could...?" KK objects, automatically, and you want to laugh because you know how that feels, grasping for some quibbling thing to dispute because it couldn't be real – "...the Empress' powers. It's true, about extending life. _Fuuuck_." He groans out his most drawn-out expletive of the night, stumbles over and paps you groggily on the shoulder, hard enough that it's almost a slap except that it definitely isn't. "Of all the rumors I could've picked to not give a shit about, Ancestors –" Now he's the one laughing hollowly. 

And you want to start talking about _his_ Ancestor, about the connections reaching through the past, but he could get more of _that_ story almost anywhere, if he looked, despite the censors, and this one, only you can tell. The door in the back of your head is blocked tight when you say, almost whisper-quiet as if that could help against overhearing, "So that's the other answer to _why us_. Not just because of you. Because of him - and because of _me_. Because I have a backdoor exploit on the Battleship fucking Condescension that no one else has ever had, or ever will." You feel horribly callous talking about your matesprit that way, but you need to get used to this, to what you're going to have to do, even if you don't think you'll ever be _comfortable_ with the prospect.

"...And you were pailing him in _my_ recuperacoon." Karkat grimaces at you and shakes his head. You're pretty sure you'll be waking up to frantic Trollian messages from him when this actually sinks in. "I _believe_ you. You're smart as fuck, but you aren't even close to creative enough to come up with shit this weird just to mess with me. But if you pull that stunt in my hive again then so help me –" He cuts himself off and bops at your shoulder again. "Are you OK? I mean, obviously not, but... Who else knows?"

"FF does," you tell him, "I... I'm not ever sure what AA knows, anymore. And so long as we stick together and keep to procedure, I'm exactly as OK as I have to be. Security: it's not just for lusus plushies."

"That isn't an answer," Karkat grumbles, but doesn't push you on it. "If I'm going to do this – and I _am_ – then I'll need to know more about your plan than 'so, we have _the_ Helmsman, that's a thing.' No, that doesn't sound right. Does the myth in my quadrant corners have a _name_? How the hell is he in any shape to be anyone's matesprit? How many others are out there that – you know what, no, it's the middle of the day. If you tell me anything more now then it's going to leak out of my hearducts along with the rest of my shoddy excuse for a thinkpan."

"...as long as it doesn't leak out your squawk blister, and - KK, the things I've seen, anyone would fall in pity, and it wasn't easy, and it isn't - and I'm babbling, but you _knew_ you needed to flush your fucking recuperacoon before I got genetic material all over it, so that part serves you right." You feel like you're in the setup for a scandalous pitch papping porno right now, all it needs is some shitty elevator music, and your quadrants are already complicated enough _without_ going there, thank you very much. "Is the mechanism broken, do I need to tech support this?"

"Fuck tech support, I need a full day's sleep and for none of this to be happening, but those are off the list of options, probably forever, so. I'll start the recuperacoon draining, you stop standing around looking stupidly pity-struck and do the gross part." And your kismesis stomps off in the direction of the supply closet, flinging half-dried sopor all over his floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Captorcest porn part of this sequence of events exists, and will be posted in a separate file - it wasn't plot-relevant, just fun to write.


	7. you lie helplessly still as your face falls apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astris looks at you aghast, like he's hit you, like he expects to see a bruise, and he starts up and steps back and wraps his arms around himself, his hands still resolving into creases and clawbeds and the precise delineation of joints. He flicks his eyes to the the floor and says, trancelike, "I couldn't – make a place for you to turn away in time, you had to _see_ me –" He drags his claws against his arms through the jumpsuit, and you see it all unspooling in his head, what he saw and felt, knowing that you also saw. "I couldn't, I – I'm sorry –"
> 
> It's a phantom ache in your breastbone, the lightless weighty knot of exhaustion and centuries and self-disgust, and you don't even know how to begin to unpick it, or whether it's even possible. And you know, too, that he needs to hold onto that right now. You can't _bear_ it, your matesprit's desperate urge to dig himself out of reality like a splinter out of skin, and it hurts, and you're shedding silent tears into his shoulder, letting the emotions loose but not the full reason why, the sudden fragility of your hope, the fragility of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter: body horror, identity blurring, starship headspace, quadrant blurring, abuse, sensory deprivation, suicidality, copious tangled flowery angst.

It isn't the first time. It isn't even the first time you've done this on purpose. Right now, today, you're gathering data, careful, observant; sweeps ago now you first started receiving transmissions he didn't know he was sending - but maybe his reluctance, the way he hesitates before letting you listen in, has to do with that, too; that guilt like he's afraid what you see will break you any more than you're already broken.

"You don't need me to tell you to be careful." Astris' fangs poke at his lip in a wry, fond smile, his hands rest heavy on your shoulders but the light around his eyes has already gone unfocused with peering into elsewhere, and your mind catches the distant and thunderous edges of it, a looming awareness of the place beyond the barriers that he has thinned but not yet drawn back. 

(It sometimes feels not quite real to know that he is the Battleship Condescension. Other times, charged with mania and fire and the knowledge of your own competence and the doom that clings to it like dark threads in the periphery of your vision, you think about what they would make you if you did not stop them, and you sure as fuck wouldn't be a livestock transport.)

You're moved, suddenly, to reach out a hand and stroke his hair, a wordless reminder that for all you've asked over and over for the chance to ride along in his head and see what he sees in the other side of himself, you still value beyond measure the part that's _here_. 

And there's a soft sigh, like your touch eases the work of shifting those barriers, and then -

You carry a city, a world within yourself, and you have been so focused, in glimpses before, on flight, on immense bellowing machines and calculations and vast stretching anemone-fingered hands of light, that you hardly knew – 

You reunite spreading, filling the center of yourself, with edges and carved-out pieces of you that have remained waking here. Over the inescapable bass note of linear climbing percentages that mean being pulled out and worn thin, the harvest of light from the body, power coiling in synthetic nodes around the engine core, pumped and purified and stored – lesser numbers swarm in: clusters of infinitesimal fluctuations, microns and nanoseconds, needling alerts and tiny flinching adjustments, climate and life and comfort, the work of enclosing creatures through the void.

You are all of this; you are, also, the part of you that is separate, small, that knows it is something else, and from that part you contain yourself carefully. You listen...

You listen.

All the voices, every word spoken in every chamber and corridor, digitize and parse into fractal sets of information - they're part of your work. They're also strangely welcome. You simply accept this, now, because you are curled into the center of all this and spun down to a careful passive thread, but something in you reaches toward language like dry roots seeking water: the functional, the banal, the secretive all rolled into something you savor as it goes in, savor and replay and analyze and wring for data. For evidence of treason, or evidence that the strife practice room needs a climate control change. It's all the same; you think you might have agonized over it once but can't afford that, because it fills a need in you vital as oxygen. 

Lights wax. You check the atomic clock against the stars, cast off signals careening into the dark that will synchronize others' time with yours through the cosmos, flick moments of attention at the subroutines that wash out the filtered dual-moon simulacrum of night with the first ruddy glare of day. You are also aware, tiny and muted and without contradiction, that it was day some hours ago; that a miniscule, almost particulate biorhythm closer in to yourself than the sprawling circuitry of lights and warming air registers the even-rolling wavelengths of midmorning sleep. Like a fragmented piece of you dreaming, from the outside, nothing out of bounds; a dormant cell cluster resting for the jump. 

You drop a fraction of mind into matching trance, just for a moment; send an inquiring _ping_ to that place that is almost-but-not self, and it answers back, call and response, steady and patient and curious, listening. Safe. A consuming sense of relief spreads into you from parts of your mind that you can't see from here; you could, you're aware, lift those veils right now, if you turned toward that self and began to decrypt...

And you won't. You've left a warning whisper of trust there for yourself, hardly legible in the dregs of some old memory but utterly to be obeyed. You've put up safeguards, and redundant safeguards; you are an expert in your own neural circuitry and you have programmed yourself well. So the deflection is gentle but inexorable: the refueling process tugs at your attention, there are nodes in need of optimizing, an output point near the base of the spine transmitting power below peak efficiency, and you call up schematics and maintenance schedules and redirect and tune – 

\- and sensors wink out. 

A section you were barely monitoring goes dark all at once: the digital feeds from the helmsblock.

You cannot ignore a possible malfunction, even though you know it is not a malfunction but a gambit. Your directives still hold, automatic as breath: you have to restore, have to direct your attention, have to open senses there, to see and feel beyond the narrow bandwidth of status indicators and warning lights -

There are two options, zero and one, to follow strict protocol or to cut straight to the point; but you feel – you feel heavy with unreasoning, unnameable caution, like engines spinning slowly in reverse – that even if this is beyond your ability to mitigate – 

You check code; find, as expected, gibberish where the name of the terminal that sent the shutoff order should have been; order a trace anyway, run commands, cycle power. Cameras and microphones flick on in dully satisfying _& status=restored_ messages. You run the manual checks, inspect each image, and the movements of the concave chest under yellow match your awareness of your breathing; the feeds are live. You focus on that breath, layered over the ticking of percentages; on absolute refusal to let the inhales creep even incrementally faster. You wait.

And as you automatically formulate the command to withdraw your focus from that terrible claustrophobic place, but hold it back knowing - she's drawing near.

The thread of consciousness that does not belong here - to break from it you would have to expand it, would have to wake into - she would _see_ \- no. 

No, and she walks closer - unmistakably tall to all your multifold eyes, bootless, these are her sleeping hours, schedules unfolding in your databanks, but she is awake anyway and the last time she did this she just stared at your body silently, baleful and _approving_ , and then walked away without a word passed between -

This time she wanders over to the console bank, barely looking at all. She's humming in perfect pitch, and when the tune goes to words, the language goes in, through the microphones, into storage and analysis - singing, softly, a song you recognize, dimly, though you haven't heard it in sweeps - "How lovely the rain, how lovely the night, 'ay-di-ai, di-ai-di-oh - how lovely the gleam of blood in moonlight -" and the chorus of nonsense syllables again, the vocabulary database turns up blanks and pulls you into reaching for something in your thinkpan, analog, faded. She reclines against the wall, on the edge of where it goes to squishy organic biotech, and wriggles her toes in the edge of the saltwater pool, twirls a coil of prodigious hair around a finger - "How lovely the song and the power of speech -" and slides a finger along a touchscreen, such a quick flick back and forth that it could be an accident -

And thousands of voices go deafeningly mute, wink out simple as an indicator light. It's the entertainment block, and for a nonsense moment it reads like that other way you know multitudes descending into sudden silence – but the voices and their absence both flowed in mundane pulses of voltage through wires, not the eerie current of Doom's whispers; and the absence is not an attack, or even a malfunction, but a shutoff. You perform the procedures in their sequence anyway. You aren't interested in courting feedback, and more than that, you have no choice. The source of the order verifies to her passwords and biometrics, pings to the helmsblock, originates at a level of command that renders your recovery measures laughable. Just a clean bitten-out gap in perception where moments ago you drank in the din of language, like the fuzzy-vacant spots in vision before a migraine, before your head used to – long ago – ( _how do you remember, wait –_ )

"How lovely the stars further out than we reach," she sings, and slides another control; you're attending to her movements unwillingly close-focused now, anticipatory.

And the taking before was only a fragment of vision but now _you_ – you dull, you collapse, your senses wither around the edges and snap off, brittle – the cosmos closes to you, stars flare and distort and snuff out – and you are what you would be in a crisis of survival, you are the hull and the close bubble of direct sense around it, the fuzz of shielding psionics enclosing a lump of barren space, gazing in all directions into the oily-kaleidoscopic dark of blindness. Jarred out of space, and when you reach for galaxies, for knowing place by light and aching distance, then – your receptor arrays are still intact on hull integrity scans, still orienting themselves mutely to the constellations; scaffolding and instrumentation still gyroscopic-swinging, centered in lenticular shallow focusing discs as immense as moons, clinging to their beacons in the distant deep as the ship coasts and curves. But they are numb unseeing pockmarks on your surface only now, and you shrink inward from the nauseating blank because there is no other way –

And you know only vaguely, because the awareness is neither prudent nor comfortable, that dumping masses of data feeds from remote and unimportant parts of the ship to stuff your sensory processing space, queueing up millions of parallel tasks and staggering your awareness through in waves, is the equivalent of a cut-winged featherbeast hopping circles in a too-small cage. ( _But you should fill your consciousness, keep your thinkpan moving, a buried thread that draws toward caution –_ ) You will not be in the helmsblock any more than you are compelled to be, but still you see, circling around to the cameras that cluster thick in the place, the squelch and drip of fluid from the wires, the frigid saltwater cycling unrippled through their gnarled-together old roots, the motionless body, goggles dark over closed eyes.

She sings the nonsense chorus again, then laughs, more sound that you have to process tediously consciously instead of shunting it away into the database, because everything she says is priority - sings, on into the next verse: did she skip one? You aren't sure; don't remember; it doesn't matter now; no one in the galaxy has sung this song in hundreds of sweeps. "Ours is the sea, and ours is the sky -" That sharp-clawed hand reaches for another control, inputs a complicated sequence this time, and you recognize it through your cameras moments before - 

_WARNING: CATASTROPHIC SENSOR FAILURE –_

Every stream of code, every line of sight, every voice all ripped away, every direction you could stretch not just walled off but impossible to reach in, _gone_.

Your cameras are off. You can no longer see the body dangling in limp sunken passivity from its squirming riot of chains, hollow-cheeked and sparking weakly with feeble shudders as it gives up light; the dribbles of ochre where a twitch broke the seal with a wire along the side, the flight suit grimy-stiff with salt fumes and old sweat. But you can feel it. You feel every aching second of prying your eyes open; the stinging of coronas as they struggle into seeing, ionized air in the goggles sandpaper-harsh after long darkness. 

Spiked through with agony you barely recognize the next verse, shrill and harsh and echoing in your ears, with the audio intakes gone and you must still be recording data but you can't perceive it going in. "And mine are the stars, and none to defy..." 

Pain doesn't – can't behave the same without the endless pathways of your network to extend yourself through – doesn't ball up and push aside, when you are the wrecked shoulders twisted up and back and disintegrating into formless balls of cartilage – when you are the skin gaping around pumping, sucking purple coils where they merge into you – when you are this body, when you are a hundred million infinitesimal splices into axons, each a microscopic soldering brand – and you hang unmoving, an arc of interrupted spine and bent neck, staring down into the pool that drowns reflected flickering in purple, calculating how far your heartbeat has deviated from the line on the reference charts marked _yellowblooded average_ , the limping whoosh and thump, the shredded rasp of breathing.

And something unaccustomed wakes in you: a riot of emotions, pity and anger like an inferno and the desire to cry. Wakes, and curls itself small and silent, leaving only the spike in your heart rate and the knowledge of a door that must stay closed. The knowledge of a door, comforting and upsetting at once. That and only that, so long as - 

\- You can't, can't think like this, your thinkpan is a solar core pulsing and melting and fusing, a nucleus of pain – bounded in, engulfed in the infinite scrutiny of your own attention cataloging every aging, aching, brittle cell, every thread of slick cold foreign life coiled up a raw icy clawing in marrow – you can't think, trapped in this wretched skin-wrapped sac of ripped out and replaced parts, gnawed and worried in the jaws of the millennia – Here where time weighs physical as pain, pulls like a swallowed fragment of the void of space, a blackness in the pit of your shriveled stomach, a dark pooled in the cup of your skull – here where time sucks at you like being absorbed from within – 

And though you fight for every thousandth of a percent your cognitives are dropping, processing speed ticking down in plateaus and nauseating jumps –

"Ay di ai, di ai di oh," she sings again, idle, melodic, and then the same notes in a close-lipped hum, her eyes barely even shifting from the screen as she inputs commands one after another and sensors flicker back online under her touch - internals first, then externals, the blessed return of light and orientation and sound. Performance numbers fluctuate wildly, rise and drop with your bloodpusher trying to equilibrate, and you see her for a moment through cameras and quivering eyes at once as she straightens, plashes out of the water and toward the portal.

You expect that she'll turn around at any moment, retrace her steps, but she does not; she leaves and you follow her life signs down the corridor until they reach parts of the ship that are hers and away from here.

And you – you flow out, awareness moving as light at its speed, as current, a reservoir through open levees; you inhabit every instrument, millions of reboot procedures in parallel, checks and re-checks and nothing has changed. The dryware backups kept you precisely on course; no reprogramming, no sensor upgrades, all as it was.

And you would never think to be relieved; she works in loops and deflections, and all is pain in time, but for now you task the remaining checks to an isolated corner of your thinkpan, to monitor in their sequence and keep watch; and you follow the deep call down into dream. You flicker with changing shape, uncurling memory, you stretch out hands to be pulled in –

And then breaking apart.

Reforming, redoubling from composite consciousness. The sudden return to the dreamspace is like falling, even if there is no physical distance to fall. 

You land sprawled legs-out disoriented and it takes you a moment to realize which one of you is you, that you're Sollux Captor and your damped-down stifled thoughts are uncrumpling to fill the oddly empty blankness where knowledge had streamed in profligate, bandwidth-dense, until - 

You had meant to wake and start typing, start parsing out stray information as quickly as possible before the details fade, but you can't leave him alone with this. 

In the moment when you look at him, when he is still flickering in kneeling over you, you see the disorientation of reopening into memory, dizzy and taxing and horrified and relieved. Astris looks at you aghast, like he's hit you, like he expects to see a bruise, and he starts up and steps back and wraps his arms around himself, his hands still resolving into creases and clawbeds and the precise delineation of joints. He flicks his eyes to the the floor and says, trancelike, "I couldn't – make a place for you to turn away in time, you had to _see_ me –" He drags his claws against his arms through the jumpsuit, and you see it all unspooling in his head, what he saw and felt, knowing that you also saw. "I couldn't, I – I'm sorry –"

You get to your feet stumbling and reach for him, throw arms around him as tightly as he'll let you as soon as you're standing. You know he saw your face, shaken and wide-eyed, and you can't tell him _it's all right_. It's not all right, but not for the reasons he thinks. You felt his revulsion as if it was your own and you're still trying to untangle your own emotions from a turmoil of rage and pity and protective instinct into something comprehensible. "Don't - I already know, I _already_ saw, long before now. Oh, Astris, I'm _sorry_ , please don't -" The sentence breaks off with too many possible endings: _Don't leave. Don't forget I know you're so much more than that. Don't think that I'll turn away from you._

But he isn't trying to go; his mind stays tangled with yours, and he's bracing against your firestorm of emotion and leaning into it at the same time, carefully cupping hands around your shoulder and the back of your neck.

"Not like _that_ ," he says hoarsely, "not since – not for a long time, except in glimpses. I know you _knew_ , you've seen every shame and danger and I – I trust you to stay, but she rubbed your face in _that_ , you had to _feel_ it, and I let it happen to you, just don't –" He shakes in your hold, fingers clutching at your shirt and hair, his mind a beam of concern turned on you, shame and anger a smoky-obscured old glow by comparison, filtered dull through immensities of distance and time – "Don't hide it from me if it affected you."

You're so _angry_ , and you know perfectly well there's no balm for it between here and the end of all this, wherever the end is, and you know you're deliberately misunderstanding him but you can't _not_ \- "Of _course_ it affected me - she has no right," you say out loud, "no _right_ , to do that to you, to hurt you, to take away what you _have_ \- and I would rend and burn and destroy, I would _pulverize_ her and whoever else got in the blast radius, for making you feel like that - whether or not I'm watching -" 

You're vibrating with rage so incandescent it scares you, and you let him see the impotent fury and the fear, because it's a clean burn, but then there's a sick and awful dread that's harder to face, and when you look at it you _realize_ , and you bury it under everything else as soon as you realize, because he _can't_ see what you intend, can't deal with thinking the thought, and you know that now more than ever. 

It's a phantom ache in your breastbone, the lightless weighty knot of exhaustion and centuries and self-disgust, and you don't even know how to begin to unpick it, or whether it's even possible. And you know, too, that he needs to hold onto that right now. You can't _bear_ it, your matesprit's desperate urge to dig himself out of reality like a splinter out of skin, and it hurts, and you're shedding silent tears into his shoulder, letting the emotions loose but not the full reason why, the sudden fragility of your hope, the fragility of everything.

"I know," he's whispering, "I know, I do, shhh, I know –" But he clings to you quivering harder as he says it, his hand on your shoulder goes crushing-tight and a high reedy whining purr threads under his words, raw and distressed – that swathe of torn-away mind where he should know what it means to be protected, and when you look into that place where you join then all you see is confused bleeding ache and the reciprocal urge to comfort. "It wasn't – what she did, it wasn't _nothing_ , but it was close, I didn't –" He cuts off, bites his lip, and you can imagine ways that could have ended, _lose anything, have to hurt anyone_ – trying to soothe something in you that he can't fully see, until finally he just murmurs, soft, a little defeated, pressing close shoulders to shins – "I just – I _love_ you, my secret light, my – my eyes and hands, my own, you don't _know_ –"

"I love you," you say back, and it comes out more desperate and pleading than you meant it to, your voice faltering on the words, you need to _show_ him and you _can't_ and he's trying to say something, grasping for words, and you look up; pull back just barely enough to meet his eyes blurry and bright and counterpoint to yours.

And at first he just stares at you, the sheen over his eyes thick and beading but too blanched-desolate to even let tears fall, but he lets out the sound of your name, mangled more than ever by the shared thickening of your speech, impenetrable with meaning, then – "You – you know the legend of two trolls who–" He has a certain tone of voice for the deep past, a certain coloration of the mind, warm but clouded over – "Who lived in the shadow of death consumed by a purpose that was fated to fail. They were matesprits at the beginning, but – you've seen for yourself how the weight of Doom can twist and fault and hollow us out, and all was always so lost for them, and – by the time I met them there was no word in Alternian to describe what they were to each other. 

"I... didn't want to understand when I knew them, and they always respected that, never tried to explain, but now I _know_ – I know the love at the end of all things. That I have only you, my only good, that there will never be anyone else – it should crush me to think of, there's so much that I can't even let myself see and stay sane, but I can't hide this one thing, from myself, from you, not anymore." And finally the tears break, and he touches your face like he can't help it, traces fingers wondering around the corner of your eye and under, trembling with pity, with – 

"Only you, beloved, I want only you in pity and hate and ways the quadrants can't imagine, I think it might be worse for me than it was for them, it's – base and selfish and monstrous and too much to ever ask of anyone, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't – you're too much, fire and pull and light and creation, I think I saw it in prophecy when you – when you gave me my spine – but even if I hadn't doubted I still wouldn't have understood what this would come to be – that I would take every cell you could rebuild in me, that I would claw for every scrap of mind, I would immerse myself in agony and dive for every fragment of personhood, I have, I will, to meet the challenge your _existence_ is to me – _You_ , beautiful to me in ways pity only begins to explain, everything layered over pity, what you are, what you _have_ , and I covet and – and _hate_ –" The muddle of association in his mind comes clear only because moments ago you felt it from trapped inside – his wrists, the eerie twinging of regrowing nerves, and the flickering of concepts, _useless_ and _dangerous_ and _cherished_ – and realization that grew in the heat of insensate anger, and Astris is panting now, claws and gleaming fangs and lines of light streaming out to either side of him webwork from his eyes, shifting forking crackling display, and he's gone too far, flayed himself open to you in the places where your joined ordeal in his body wounded him – shuddering, his whole body, strobing with light, repeating _I'm sorry, I love you, I'm sorry_ , hollow and desperate, he despairs of it being enough but _needs_ it to be, speaking over rumbling like a barely dammed in snarl –

And you're caught in the whirlwind, hanging onto the shape of yourself by the tips of your horns - his emotions are so roiling and so _large_ you can't see the edges of them, can't attempt to measure the difference, but where moments ago you thought all was lost - there's a tiny, mad hope that maybe, just _maybe_ , this immensity could contend with the blackened depths of that self-destructive urge.

"I don't know how to be that for you but I'll _try_ , don't tell me not to, you're right that it's too much but - it's not disproportionate when _everything's_ too much," your voice is trembling and you're holding him like he or you might fall, and you mean his life as a starship, you mean your overstrung brain and the game and the insane plan you're masterminding now - "I don't know how, I don't know if I _can_ , but you deserve - you deserve everything wonderful that's been barred to you for so long, and you only have _me_ , and I'll _try_ to be -" 

He reaches up with both hands and touches your horn-tips, careful and deliberate and strange, the front then the back, not a touch to give sensation but as if to anchor himself in the mutation, in who and what you are, and rolls each between two fingerpads, taking up sips of energy from you, as he cages his shivering in.

And you know perfectly well you would throw yourself over for him but you _have to keep your head_ , your life isn't only your own and the work of keeping yourself from crashing and burning is suddenly obligation to him and to your friends and to the future of the world, and like a looming cliffside off the edge of a too-tight turn, you recognize some small voice of prophecy or despairing last scrap of common sense, and manage to stammer out, "But I - my other quadrants -"

Astris sees you wrestling with your own mind, close and hyperfocused on you as he is, and the light from his eyes steadies and braids and unifies and wraps a circle around the both of you. "I don't know," he says roughly, "I – I'm as lost, it's going to be – two blind trolls leading each other, we'll fall together, we'll lift each other – But for this: if you give up your quadrants for me, who can't even be a true matesprit for you, who will never fill your pail or protect you, who can only teach you to guard yourself and look on and _hope_ – I swear to you again that I will still leave you, with your clawmarks in my thinkpan if I have to." And you sag with relief. You thought he would tell you again not to forsake the others for him, but if he hadn't, you're not sure what you would have done. "Keep your quadrants," he says, "have what you can, _please_ , I still want, more than anything, at the core of this, I still want desperately for you to be free and happy, and now that might be _possible_ – I want to wrap up galaxies and press them into your hands, I want to give you – what it is to me now, to have you in my arms – to be here and reach out for you and pull the universe to myself, in all its immensity and structures, dear one, in all its ferocity and generation, everything I see in you – that you are infinitely valuable – and what matters is not that you shoosh me or strife me but that you _are_ , and I adore you and strive toward you and need you and am here for you only, anything, always, until my last moment, _anything_ –" His hands are sliding down and skittering over your back, sparks swirling around and through both of you, wavelengths shifting, specks of febrile energy that wobble between red and blue.

Your mind is racing through convolutions and possibilities and what the hell you're going to explain of something you don't even understand and can't even imagine deserving. It helps that you can see it in his mind, the rush of feelings and thoughts too enormous to describe, beyond anything rational or the common kind of quadrant-flipping; that it's simply _there_ in plain view. FF will accept it, you know that solidly; does already, there's a hint of flushed in your diamond and the other way around won't bother her, sometimes it's close enough already to being like that - KK will probably flip the fuck out but that's all right, what else is new - but you, _you_ \- you're crying so suddenly you don't know when it happened, burying your face in his neck, fingers bunched in his shirt half-limply, overwhelmed by what you've seen and felt, the whiplash between his awful claustrophobic self-disgust in the helmsblock and the intensity of his quadrant-blurring devotion, and - "I'm frightened," you blurt out, "I need - I need you to be my matesprit - I don't want to lose that -"

Before you finish speaking the light around you is intensifying, coming together, and he lifts both of you up, curls you in his arms up against his side and settles you on the couch huddled together; kisses your hair and murmurs, again, "I'm sorry," speaking into your horns, your forehead, stroking your arms and hands – "I'm sorry, I – I _know_ it's a betrayal, I know I'm betraying you _now_ when you have never been anything but so steadfast for me, so caring, everything my heart needed unknowing –" A more familiar self-loathing; but still he never curls away, just uncatches your damp enervated hand from his shirt and rubs it in his own, plays your fingers between his, rubs your palm. "But – if you still want my – my damaged desire, my overgrown pity, then – still so flushed for you underneath it all, I promise, my pity for you is still the same awful flame that I followed unquestioning into terrible pain and retribution when you first came to me – yours by right, yours because being your matesprit makes me _so happy_ , because I love hearing you say it, because your body is such a small, soft, lovely locus of power beyond imagining – because – because you _asked_ me."

His touch soothes you into purring, even though you're still crying silently, scorched through with too much emotion, still needing to comfort him in return - you curl your fingers into his, one and the same, at nine-tenths scale, and kiss him softly on the mouth. He half-startles under your lips as if he hadn't expected, purring in sped-up amplified counterpoint to you, had thought you might be too wound-up distressed by the revelation to even reach for him. 

"Don't berate yourself," you say, "you _told_ me. Everything we _can_ tell each other we need, right now. There's too much that we can't - and I can't imagine I would ever - even when you were gone and the world had ended, I moved forward, I lived, but I didn't let go of what you are to me; in my heart, in my head."

And he speckles small kisses around and under your eyes until his mouth shines with tears; his power still shifts and pulses around the both of you like a third living thing, and he might remember, for just a strange light-saturated moment, more than he meant; you think you see pieces in his mind kept so carefully apart sliding across each other, a moment of remembering _why_ you had to go up with him and see – "If you succeed, then even when you – when you give me what you promised, when this is over –" He tries to hold back the surge of gratitude at the thought, though you have been inside his mind, you've seen his desperate yearning, and his voice is low, emotion-fractured. "Then our names will be joined always in history, the Gemini, the Two; then our lives will be told always in one breath together – as the story of my friends who loved each other beyond the quadrants is whispered, never forgotten how I love you, never lost –" and whisper-quiet, a suffusion into breath, as though in near-silence he could more deeply hide speech from listeners excluded from this place: _my love, my legacy, my salvation_ , and he pulls you so close, hot breath on skin and clutching hands and tight as if you could merge; dissolve in crying, yours and his, or melt together into the sea of light around you –

When this is over.

You'll stand or fall together with him, however it ends, and you don't care how history remembers you, don't even know how to tell your own story any longer. It doesn't even matter what story is told. They could idolize or vilify you, so long as you do what you must. And even as you hold tight to him, skin to skin, bathed together in warmth and light, a part of your mind is walling off, beginning to piece out what you saw and heard, cycling through data and hiding its significance. Because you know, somewhere in the recesses of your thinkpan, the shape of your design - and even the closest in your confidence can't assemble the missing pieces together: only you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'd like to offer all our readers a hug right about now.


	8. old red rose petals or tracks of mud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And while you're in the business of dealing with the things you've been trying to avoid: it's as good a time as any to prepare yourself, track down a certain cerulean-blooded asshole and provoke her. 
> 
> This is not going to be pleasant. This is not going to be pleasant _at all_.
> 
> (Happy belated 4/13!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We intend to update on a faster schedule again from here on out, seeing as we have about 3/4 of our future chapters written and we're mainly in the process of editing. (We're saying it here expressly to invite you to nag us about it! Don't nag fic writers who don't like to be nagged, but we like to be nagged. Really. Badger us for more at your earliest convenience.)
> 
> Content notes for this chapter: Vriska, squabbling, calculated risks, mind shenanigans, mania, politics.

You've been telling yourself Bicyclopsdad just has a volatile temperament, but more and more, this sweep, you know he's getting restless. 

"It's part of their life cycles," Tavros says, wistfully, when you're over at his hive doing the usual countersurveillance measures. "They know when you're, about to reach final maturity, I guess. I'm lucky to have the powers I do, because I got to ask Tinkerbull if I could fool him about my scent, and he seemed to think it would be okay, so I did that... otherwise he'd have gone away in the last sweep..."

By the way he says it, you're pretty sure this grace period cannot be extended to, say, the lusii of his friends. 

The roof is no place for a creature like your animal guardian to live for the long run, and the less time you have available to go up there and feed him and strife with him, the more it weighs on your mind. 

Finally, early one evening between one momentous coding bender and the next, you bring up his breakfast and a jar of mind honey, stick around as he finishes it off, and then unlock the anklet that keeps him grounded; but the damn fool doesn't fly away. 

"Go on," you say, but Bicyclopsdad just looks at you with both heads and blinks expectantly, not even trying to strife. 

"Okay, okay, fine. Let's go," and you take off into the air. This, he understands, and goes after you, scorching the brick with his push-off and paddling through the air like an ungainly bumblebee. 

You know where some of the entrances to the brooding caverns are, including the one you've always thought you came out of. It's a surprisingly long distance, in practice (even as a wriggler, you guess, you did things because you were too determined to know better) and there's a wooded area near your destination, a place you'd seen before while traveling from one troll's hive to another's, just far enough out of the way for a lot of wildlife to reside there. 

That's where you set down, coming in through a canopy of trees that dim the light of the moons. There's a sound in the distance that you think might be antlerbeasts, and another sound that's probably a creek - you're an urban dweller, you're never totally certain about these things. 

Your lusus, on the other hand, looks more alert than you've seen him in ages, eyes swiveling in opposite directions to take in the panoramic view. 

( _They can locate the brooding caverns at a distance of several miles_ , the Trollpedia article had said. You looked up what you could find about survival odds, because you're a big softie, and didn't find much, because most science on lusii begins and ends with how they raise trolls, but what you did find told you he'd at least have a chance out here.

And even if you weren't in a developmental stage outside his comfort zone - Bicyclopsdad is innocent of your crimes, and you don't want him caught in the backlash.) 

A plump white flutterbeast starts up a raucous song on a branch high above your head, and you have to pull Bicyclopsdad down by one big clumsy hand from floating off to investigate so that you can hug him goodbye. "Thanks for everything," you tell him. "Here's hoping the next wriggler is less of a clusterfuck than me, okay?" 

He pats your back, peers at you with a slow satisfied-looking blink like one of NP's meowbeasts, hovers again when you let go of his hand – and drifts off, following the flutterbeast from tree to tree and humming a tuneless electrical sound to himself until he's out of sight. At least he seems to think he did a good job.

 

~

 

And while you're in the business of dealing with the things you've been trying to avoid: it's as good a time as any to prepare yourself, track down a certain cerulean-blooded asshole and provoke her. 

This is not going to be pleasant. This is not going to be pleasant _at all_. You've gone long enough without an actual hard test of this principle that it's honestly becoming an embarrassment to you as a hacker, for something that's going to be crucial to the final success of this project.

That's how you think of it, most times, _the project_ , superstitiously, as if grander words might tilt the planet off its axis, generate a failure condition - or never mind the planet, they'll tilt your _head_ and that's bad enough.

Intellectually you know this is the safest possible controlled condition for running up against highblood mind control powers. VK has grudgingly been proving herself a reliable ally for most of a sweep now (while insisting at the top of her lungs that she's doing nothing of the sort, of course, but that's what you'd expect from her, if she seemed more contrite on the surface you wouldn't believe it for an instant - and it _galls_ you how well you can predict someone you would be happier never to see again -)

But in your gut you've been dreading this moment for as long as you've been putting it off, maybe longer. It doesn't help that the comedown from a manic jag is not particularly more pleasant when you've initiated it yourself than it is when it happens naturally - although being able to make this happen on purpose has maybe done something for your ability to tell when a mood shift is happening. You hate the lot of it, and you hate Vriska Serket, and you're walking into Kanaya's hive (blessedly still un-surveiled, you check every time) like you're walking a plank.

Other than Karkat, who looks up and makes his best help-I'm-trapped-in-a-meeting face at you, the small group huddled together around Eridan's tablet at the center of Kanaya's living block makes a production of not noticing you're there. You shrug and head for the back of the room. You're ostensibly around to add another layer of encryption to the network here, and you really are doing that; you keep expecting Kanaya's hive to outlive its usefulness as a hub for the project's inner circle but as long as you're still using this place it's your first priority for security upgrades. It's also yet another soft test: if Vriska reads your plan off the top of your thinkpan before the meeting ends then you've failed before even starting and should probably get the hell out.

You plug your husktop into Kanaya's router, start typing – and come up with half a dozen new elaborations on your security scheme in the first ten minutes, on top of everything you thought of on the way over here. Forcing yourself to type your ideas into a separate document instead of incorporating experimental code into a critical network device on the fly like a complete foolhardy moron takes an absurd level of willpower. 

Worse, they're talking loud enough that it's hard to stay disengaged from the conversation. You're starting to think that sharing AA's notes on past failed uprisings might have been a mistake. Everyone agrees that pailing season is a foolproof diversion to any attempted regime change; most everyone agrees on spreading rumors that the drones are culling indiscriminately, and creating some kind of evidence. But then they put VK in charge of figuring out the details. Even Feferi, who's out raising build grist, thinks Vriska needs something to do and that it might as well involve a complicated deception. You're extremely dubious, but you're only allowed to straight-up veto things when your doom sense is tingling. 

"Wait, somebody remind me, how many hours have we been at this, again?" Karkat says, interrupting Vriska's monologuing. "And how much closer are we to a plan for Operation Fuck Off and Die that makes any sense at all with our limited resources? I still say we cull a few bastards and get done with it – at least then they're casualties of conquest and not walking liabilities. And I would be out of this meeting – I can't believe I'm saying this, but I have a regiment I'd rather be training." You've seen the trolls KK is working with and 'regiment' is kind of optimistic, but he's managed to get a surprising number to train with him, in any case. 

"He has a point," Eridan pipes up, "If the idea is to seed rumors that some trolls who filled both pails are gettin culled anyway on Ascension, then the simplest plan is to go ahead an cull em. But Fef said –"

"Feferi made herself perfectly clear that we are to refrain from wanton and indiscriminate culling." Kanaya pauses while crossing the room to adjust the armful of toxic-colored, bristly plant that appears to be trying to squirm out of her grasp. "I registered my trepidation regarding the extent of application of this principle at the time, but is it not your role to bring these things up directly with the Heiress?" She gives the plant a stern look and steps over mess of cable you've made around her router on her way out to the perimeter of defensive vegetation around her hive.

KK scowls. "She's been up to her hearfronds with recruiting the newly pupated for their build credits, neither of us has exactly had time for a traditional Imperial dialectic – fuck, before the Discordictator's office was abolished those arguments used to take perigees, who can even talk that much –"

"I can't imagine," KN says dryly, so you don't have to.

"I still don't like this," you call out from the corner. "You're talking about enlisting a couple dozen of the biggest dripping bulgewads on Alternia to completely screw over their quads, not to mention that once they're up there they'll be security liabilities the size of the Pink Moon. There's still a line between breaking shit because it's necessary and doing it just because we _can_."

"You've already defanged my plan enough!"

"Yeah, since sending our _enemies_ off to marinate in their own acrimony was so _obviously_ something that wouldn't come back to -"

Vriska snaps back, sharp, "Besides, it wasn't my idea, not really. It was Megido's, and _you_ told _us_. She's still on board with it. Or doesn't she still talk to you, too? - I'm sorry," fake sorry, "did I go too far?" Her tone is all syrup and snark and everything is _wrong_ and you're literally seeing red, but you push on, because this is what you need to do even if you choke on bile thinking about it. 

KK has both hands over his face, and ED mutters, " _I_ can't even conceive a bein that fuckin insensitive, Vris, could you _can_ it," but she's already mad and keenly pointed at you, and that's what you wanted. 

" _Wow_ , VK," you talk over Eridan because who the fuck cares, "Congratulations, your implementation of AA's ideas is so poorly thought out and likely to backfire spectacularly that you've resorted to the classic defense of _dead moirail jokes_. I'm so impressed I might puke."

"As _iiiiiiiif_ I need to impress you, nerd king," she huffs. "You've already made it clear that your sniffnodes are buried deep in my business and if I fuck up for real, I wake up dead. Which means either I'm not fucking up, or you're not as competent as you think you are." It burns that she's actually telling the truth; you can't _stand_ working with her but she also hasn't slipped up in any of the ways that would justify refusing to tolerate her any further. 

It's also not what you want her thinking about right now. "Face it, VK, you're just not skilled enough to come after me anymore," you say, almost growling. You're dimly aware of the others in the block looking at you as if you've grown a second head, but what do you care?

Terezi keeps turning her head with unseeing accuracy between you and Vriska, her expression drawing up into a sharp scowl. "You smell like belligerence," she says over your growling, "And a whole lake of Five Night Energy, and... burnt grubloaf. What –"

Vriska trammels over her, sneering, laughing an ugly mocking laugh. "Oh my _god_ , Sollux, leave the manipul-eight-tion to trolls who know what they're doing," she says. "You couldn't be more transparent if _you_ were a ghost! I am a lot of things, but I am _not_ so clueless that I'm going to step out of line just because of your whiny goading."

"Not going to – oh, that's _funny_." If there's one thing Vriska Serket hates it's being laughed at, but you're too shaky-taut with snarling anger to bring yourself to spit out more than a single sneering _hah_. "Still more squeamish about saving face than ruining lives and endangering the mission – anything else before I make absolutely sure your dumbfuck plan dies the quiet death it deserves and everyone sees that your fangs have lost their edge?"

"What the hell is that even supposed to _mean_ ," she says - "Oh, that's right! You're so completely convinced that I'm going to lose control of my temper and push you that you're not even noticing what's in front of you! Which is me, not rising to the bait. It's not like I haven't been staying in practice," she says, and her one natural eye glimmers, and with a chill you believe her. "Small stuff. _Subtle_ stuff. It's this whole new world! You know, making sure strange trolls don't stumble across our working locations... if I keep it simple, turns out I _can_ handle more than one at a time, isn't that grand? And targets over my hemocaste, too. Funny thing, power. Turns out it's easier to get better at it when you're not constantly flaunting it all the time! Not that you'd know anything about that. Turns out I have exactly negative eight fucks to give about proving myself to you when I have bigger and better things to do. Threaten me all you like," and she says it so it comes out sort of rhyming with eight, and part of the back of your mind finds it ridiculously ironic how much her goddamn number quirk grates on _you_ of all people. "Your friends have just seen you try to set me up and _faaaaaaaail_." 

"...OK, yeah, that idea was shit." You put your husktop down and rest your chin in your hands. You're still so pissed off that not punching a neat smoking hole through the floor with a bolt of psionics or your fist or both is an effort, but at least you have enough pride left to rein it in until you're somewhere without a whole meeting's worth of eyes on you. "If you're looking to watch me mope around about why it was shit then you're out of luck for the night, but it was definitely shit. I was trying to – well, I was trying to be a vindictive asshole and that part worked out great, but –"

Vriska gives a brief snort of a laugh. "If you're using 'worked out great' to mean 'pointed out your badly crafted trap to me from miles away', sure. So are we done here or did you have some other _brilliant_ wrigglerish scheme to try and pull me into?" She yawns theatrically, covering her mouth with her robot hand.

"Yeah, about that." You roll your tense, aching shoulders and keep focusing on not breaking things. "Setting you up was secondary. No, _is_ – you're still getting owned, but there's no science without testing." Aware of your hands fidgeting, you tug off your glasses and tuck them away, stifling nervous hysterics. Fuck the comedown, you're already a mess. You turn back to Vriska, try to stare down her good eye. "Try to make me do something. Make me do a stupid dance for all I care, just get it over with."

"Fuck no!" she says, in that way she has which sounds like shouting even when it's not. "You've basically said I'm gonna be dead if I do that. Let me guess, you're in one of those moods where you believe everyone else is _stupid_." And you want to laugh, because she is being stupid; she could put the pieces together from what she has. She _knows_ she can only control you some of the time, and it's not like the phases of the moons factor into it.

"If I meant to kill you, you would _know_ ," you snap, beyond caring that it comes off as blustering confirmation of VK's scoffing. "There's no such thing as a fair fight between us, and if I've done this right then there never will be, so the least I could do is give fair warning. Look, if I raise a hand against you right now then these assholes lying around gaping at us can cull me where I sit. Now can you fucking get on with the 'why are you hitting yourself' routine already?"

"That's some nice blustering you have there, but not very much information. Why should I?"

"Because I'm asking you to test a mission-critical piece of equipment, which just happens to be my thinkpan, and I can tell you for free that if you do the job and don't try to pull any 'clever' stunts then it won't hurt your chances of getting the rest of us to lay off watching your every move. More than we already watch each other and everyone else, I mean." You grit your fangs into an obnoxious grin and click your claws against the closed lid of your husktop, deliberately grating. You're negotiating now but it still feels like provocation, sneering lingering anger. "Not all of us have the luxury of test subjects who aren't ourselves, you know."

"You all heard that, right?" She turns around and looks from Terezi to Kanaya to Eridan to Karkat, preening for attention - Eridan grumbles, "Naww, Vris, you could yell louder, course we heard that -" then back to you. "You promise you won't come after me for this," she says. " _Promise_." It's phrased confidently, but it's a question.

"Shit, VK, as amused as I am that you think I'm so vicious and bloodthirsty, I am _not_ in fact going to cull you for _doing what I just asked you to do_. It's not like I'm you or something." You roll your eyes. 

"I never said you were like _me_ ," Vriska crows, vaguely singsong. "But fiiiiiiiine. If you're so sure about your creepy brain diffusion waves or whatever, I'll have fun proving you wrong! It isn't like this ever took much effort."

She - no, you're not focused on her, you're focused on _you_ , you're large, you contain multitudes - you're moving under a weight, like _flickers of a starship moving through atmosphere_ like there's another troll dangling over your shoulders, but you're _moving_ , you're tapping the fingers of your left hand on your right palm like you're impatiently waiting for her to start and twitching your mouth and staring off into the distance, your vision clouds and darkens a little but you're _not losing any ground_. You tune the connection in your head, crank the output up a little, and then you're _gaining_ ground, and your vision clears, and the weight comes off, and you're staring at Vriska just laughing and laughing and laughing -

"Bahhhhhhhh!" Vriska swats at you, or maybe at the hazy bluish glow clearing from around her head. "Cheap conversing-block tricks. I expected better of you. Again!" She spits out the lowblood word for "parlor" like it has a foul taste and somehow manages to rhyme the middle part of "again" with "eight," which only makes you laugh harder. She clutches both hands to her temples like the stereotypical telepath in every shitty movie KK has ever made you watch, grits her teeth into an ugly sneering grin and blue flares up from her forehead again, sharper and brighter.

At first you think it's not affecting you at all but then your hand doesn't respond as quickly as it's supposed to, just a tiny slowdown, a murky haze seeping into your nerves even though your thoughts are untouched. You hiss, an animal noise, and rearrange power flows in your brain. Everything is incandescent. The edges of your eyeballs hurt. 

You hold the line.

Not only that but you do it _easily_. You don't need to be working this hard. You don't have anything to be afraid of. She is a _gnat_ , she is nothing, she can't hurt you or hurt others through you again, and your vision is so full of her scowling, put-out, unrealistically bored face that if your optic nerves breathed they would be choking on it. You're laughing again, softly, advancing toward her a step, only half aware that the others have gone silent: it doesn't seem important. 

"What the fuck are you laughing at?" she hisses back, then turns halfway to the group when you don't respond, keeping her good eye pointedly fixed on you. "Do you all see this? He's snapped again, the _gr-eight_ genius Sollux Captor has lost his mind, I can't control what isn't there! But I have other ways of defending myself, if that's really what you're after –" Vriska huffs out a put-upon sigh and reaches into her jacket pocket with a rattle of dice.

"So that _is_ all you've got," you say quietly, sounding smug even to yourself. "And I just said I wasn't going to cull your ass - if you stayed in parameters - so how about _staying in fucking parameters?_ " You're up in her business, close enough that you spray spittle on her face when you talk, and you aren't remotely sorry. "Are you that desperate for a reminder that we need you and can't just throw your lifeless body to the Mother Grub without some backup plans? Because I lose nothing by saying that, you know, it's _not_ a game of face for me. You're a goddamn asset, you're quadranted to someone I give a shit about, but I can't _stand_ you and I'm _not_ going to make nice about it, you loathsome third-rate cheater -" 

"I'm the best cheat your paltry half-baked plotting could get, and I despise repeating myself almost as much as I despise your freakish face so last chance, do you want to _make_ something of it –"

Something red and very fast whirrs in front of your face and smacks several times at the floor, leaving gashes in the garish carpet that are guaranteed to be a huge headache to explain to Kanaya later. "You are both despicable, self-obsessed wastes of time to this most dastardly and dishonorable assembly, and also out of order!" Terezi raises the point of her cane to about shin level and glares at each of you in turn with blind, menacing accuracy.

You're mid-yell when the cane flies down, and end up standing there with your mouth hanging open like an idiot; you've been known to be romantically oblivious at times, but you know an ashen scowl when you see one. "Shit, I didn't mean it like _that_ ," you blurt out, and you're about to insult her for thinking you did but it's _Terezi_ and you don't want to stoop to that - and the realization is dawning on you that you kind of did mean it like that, although _why_ would you even - oh, right. Juiced-up thinkpan. Wellp. 

Well, _those_ vine-borne fruiting berries are definitely sour. 

"Ugh, Pyrope, don't look at meeeeeeee! I think a little sparring between allies makes us all more aware of our abilities. In fact, I'm sure Sollux agrees that we could have averted some unpleasantness if he'd thought to have this chat with me sooner." Vriska grins nastily at you but modulates her voice into a fake-sweet singsong that makes your head pound harder. "And even if in his fragile mental state he had less noble reasons for making unprovoked threats when I was doing my best to help, I can hardly see how it's _your_ business."

So much for trying to keep your mouth shut. " _Fragile_ is what you call a thinkpan you can't get into? Yeah, that's rich -"

One quick wrist-flick and two thwacking sounds later, you're both clutching at the shins that you failed to move out of cane range. "This council has examined the hoofbeast excrement offered in evidence by both parties and determined it to be putridly inappropriate for a crucial strategic conference. The complainants are sentenced to stop blathering pointlessly until the meeting is over and also to _back off_. Three paces. Now."

Vriska glares daggers with her good eye, then rolls it at the ceiling and complies.

You are going to remember to be grateful later. At the moment you're too busy working your jaw like an idiot. You still feel like you need to explain yourself. "TZ, I - did something, that was why all this, it _worked_ -" 

"Unless your breakthrough hinges on the volume of your shouting match with Marquise Sulky Notmyfault over here, I suggest that you save it for the information security working group." You know Terezi well enough to be certain that she'll do whatever it takes to be at that meeting; whatever this is, it can't be mistaken for Terezi being uninterested.

"Hey –" Vriska breaks in, but you're faster. It occurs to you that being able to out-talk Vriska isn't necessarily a good thing, but you forge on.

"No, I - I had to _tell_ you, I need to -" These words coming out of your mouth, they are not doing much for the picture of your competence. "Ok, just - keep track of _her_ for a while, please -" What you need to do is uncross the crossed wires in your head, and that'll leave you vulnerable, and if Vriska is going to try anything boneheaded this would be a _really awful_ time for it. What you said earlier was true, too; you don't relish the thought of having to find a replacement any more than you want VK pissing around in your head ever again. 

"I'll keep track of her, the moons will keep being sour apple green and plant fiber candy pink, and you will keep being a huge nerd." Terezi nods at you, abruptly turns around, her cane does another athletic figure around its handle and Karkat lets out an extremely undignified yelp. "Now less gawking, more outrageous scheming! I have not been sufficiently scandalized by you miscreants yet tonight."

You're not sure if that's sarcasm. TZ always did take a certain delight in being scandalized. 

You don't want to switch it off; why _would_ you - but you have to, this isn't good for you, you're going to need _some_ functionality left later as opposed to _all of it_ for just the next twenty-four hours. So you steal off into the ablution block (filled with cheery flowers, ornate molding and a very elaborate trap, which you suppose is as good a use of wriggler build grist as any) where the door locks and no one will interrupt you, for as long as it takes to reach your awareness into the physical space of your thinkpan, thin the flow of energy artificially connecting areas that weren't meant to be so directly aligned, and finally shut it down. 

You nearly fall out of the sky at least twice on the the way back to your hive, collapse into sopor fully clothed, record your observations with your phone perched perilously on the edge of the recuperacoon – and wake up what seems like only minutes later, both tired enough to sleep for another week and still so jittery that you juggle your phone above the sopor for a minute before you can get it to stop buzzing at you.

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling twinArmageddons --

GC: H3Y YOU

\-- twinArmageddons is an idle troll! [reason: idle] --

GC: M1ST3R 4PPL3B3RRY W1TH TH3 3XTR3M3LY UN1NFORM4T1V3 D3F4ULT 1DL3 M3SS4G3   
GC: ...   
GC: N3V3R M1ND, YOUR TROLLT4G T4ST3S L1K3 SOPOR1F1CS. BL3H >:[   
GC: WH3N YOU W4K3 UP 1 W1LL B3 W41T1NG W1TH GR34T 1NT3R3ST FOR YOUR 3XPL4N4T1ON OF WH4T TR4NSP1R3D L4ST N1GHT   
GC: 4SSUM1NG TH4T YOU H4V3 COMPL3T3D WH4T3V3R R3P41RS W3R3 N3C3SS4RY TO YOUR W31RD TH1NKP4N 4ND 4R3 C4P4BL3 OF CONV3RS4T1ON 4T 4 R34SON4BL3 VOLUM3 4G41N   
TA: 2ay2 the one of u2 typiing iin all cap2.   
TA: ii gue22 that an2wer2 the que2tiion you diidn't quiite a2k, iin that my head feel2 liike iit'2 full of rock2 and everythiing'2 two loud.    
GC: 4ND YOU D1DN'T 4NSW3R TH3 QU3ST1ON 1 4SK3D! 1 4M UN1MPR3SS3D BY YOUR 4SC3NT TO D1ZZY1NG N3W H31GHTS OF OBTUS3N3SS   
GC: 1 COULD 4LSO COMM3NT 4T GR34T L3NGTH ON TH3 S3V3R3 D3F1C13NC13S 1N YOUR SURV1V4L SK1LLS   
GC: BUT YOU WOULD JUST T4K3 TH4T 4S 4N 3XCUS3 TO CONT1NU3 TO CRYPT1C4LLY T3LL M3 4BSOLUT3LY NOTH1NG 4BOUT WHY YOU D3C1D3D TO S3T 4 WORLD FOOLH4RD1N3SS R3CORD 1N TH3 M1DDL3 OF MY M33T1NG 4ND 4LSO WHY YOUR T3XT SM3LLS L1K3 TH3 WORST H4NGOV3R IN 4LL OF P4R4DOX SP4C3

\-- twinArmageddons has set encryption layer 2.2! configuring... --  
\-- encryption set! automated message: [encryptiion ii2 2tiill not an excu2e two 2ay 2tupiid 2hiit. 2eriiou2ly.] --

TA: diid you thiink vk wa2 ju2t haviing an off niight or lo2iing her touch, iif 2o ii wiill gladly iinform you that 2he ii2 2tiill iin fully dy2functiional condiitiion.    
TA: a2 near a2 ii can tell, anyway.    
TA: ii fiigured out a patch for an exploiit on my thiinkpan, two be faiir iit requiired 2ome help.    
TA: and ii had rea2on two beliieve iit would work, but no proof untiil now.    
GC: 1 D1DN'T TH1NK 4NYTH1NG   
GC: S1NC3 4LL TH1S ST4RT3D 1 H4V3 B33N 4TT3MPT1NG TO D3V3LOP 4 R3V1S3D JUD1C14L 4PPRO4CH   
GC: 1NVOLV1NG 4 GR34T3R 3MPH4S1S ON TH3 F4CTS OF TH3 C4S3 4ND L3SS W1LD SP3CUL4T1ON   
GC: BUT TH4T 1S S1GN1F1C4NTLY OFF TOP1C   
GC: SO YOUR F1X TO VR1SK4S BR41N TH1NG 1S DO1NG TH3 TH1NG WH3R3 YOU COD3 FOR 4 W33K W1THOUT SL33P1NG 4ND 4NT4GON1Z3 YOUR 3NT1R3 CHUMPROLL?   
TA: when you put iit that way, iit 2ound2 2o iidiiotiic.   
TA: but ye2 iin fact, certaiin 2tate2 of con2ciiou2ne22 can temporariily make my braiin le22 vulnerable two brute-force iintru2iion2.   
TA: and ii wouldn't even be talkiing about iit iin an encrypted trolliian chat, except ii'm pretty 2ure iit only work2 wiith my peculiiar braiin 2tructure.   
GC: OK UH   
GC: B3L13V3 M3 1 UND3RST4ND TH4T TH1S 1S B3TT3R TH4N TH3 4LT3RN4T1V3   
GC: BUT TH3 TH1NG WH3R3 YOU R1S3 TO THE3 B41T 3V3RY T1M3 SOM3ON3 H4SSL3S YOU L1K3 SOM3 K1ND OF 4NGRY 4ND FORG3TFUL N3RDF1SH 1S D4NG3ROUS TO TH3 1NT3GR1TY OF TH3 T34M 4ND POSS1BLY YOUR H1D3 1F YOU'R3 NOT C4R3FUL   
GC: 4LSO 1T'S R34LLY 4NNOY1NG >:[   
TA: ii'm 2orry.   
TA: ii wiill endeavor two 2tay iin contact wiith the handle, but ii really can't promii2e anythiing.   
TA: maybe the handle 2hould get a trollbook page.   
TA: no that 2ounded dumb.   
GC: TH4T PL4N DO3S NOT STR1K3 M3 4S M33T1NG YOUR USU4L ST4ND4RDS OF PR3P4R4T1ON, 4PPL3B3RRY   
GC: DO 1 H4V3 TO R3M1ND YOU TH4T L4ST N1GHT 1 B41L3D YOUR PR4CT1C4LLY TWO D1M3NS1ON4L 4SS OUT OF SOM3 S3R1OUS 3MB4R4SSM3NT 4T TH3 V3RY L34ST?   
TA: well you don't have two remiind me now, becau2e you ju2t diid.   
TA: 2orry, ii diidn't mean... that 2ounded more 2narky iin text than iit diid iin my head.   
TA: ii'm actually really grateful for that.    
TA: ii don't want you two feel liike you have two, um.   
TA: but you kiind of diid, and ii would much rather have that ver2iion of the iinciident iin my per2onal tiimeliine than the ver2iion where you diidn't.   
GC: S4M3   
GC: 1 M34N OBV1OUSLY S1NC3 1 D3C1D3D TO DO 1T 4ND 3V3RYTH1NG   
GC: BLUH, NOW 1 SOUND DUMB TOO   
GC: SO UH   
GC: 4R3 YOU S4Y1NG TH4T NOT-TH1NKP4N-P4TCH3D YOU 1S OK W1TH FUTUR3-M3 CONT1NU1NG TO T3LL 4SSHOL3-YOU TO CUT TH3 SH1T   
GC: UGH 1 SOUND L1K3 K4RK4T, R3M1ND M3 TO N3V3R S4Y 4NYTH1NG L1K3 TH4T 3V3R 4G41N   
TA: iit'2 a deal, ii wiill gladly encourage you not two talk liike kk iif you keep me from tangliing wiith vk.   
TA: or really anyone el2e that'2 iinadvii2able for me two tangle wiith.   
TA: and you can remiind future me ii 2aiid 2o, two.   
GC: 1 W1LL CR4CK DOWN ON TH1S OBNOX1OUS B3LL1G3R3NC3 TO TH3 FULL 3XT3NT OF TH3 L4W   
GC: NO STUP1D1TY 1N TH3 V1C1N1TY OF 4 C3RT41N T3RR1BL3 SP1D3RY 1ND1V1DU4L W1LL 3SC4P3 MY SN1FFNOD3S   
GC: c3  
TA: c3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while back we sorted out [the definition of auspisticism in Wires and Stars](http://tatterdemalionamberite.tumblr.com/post/58412886186/so-titian-is-sleeping-in-the-other-room-more-loud), which diverges from canon: it includes the canonical "keeping two people away from each other who aren't good for each other" role, but an auspistice is specifically quadranted to one auspisticee, rather than two, and helps them make good choices with regards to blackrom, whether that's eschewing a bad romance or pursuing a good one. This continues to be the definition we're using.


	9. and fingers grab at nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sollux experiments with bathtub biohacking, Karkat has a falling-out with the handle, Feferi wins hearts and minds, Aradia is knowledgeable, Eridan is not, everyone is at least a little devious, the Condesce is terrible, and the Helmsman is... malfunctioning.
> 
>  
> 
> _You knew, you have always known: that seizing back what they have taken from you is its own punishment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: in case the summary and title didn't herald it well enough, there is some pretty serious body horror this chapter.

==> Sollux: Be prepared.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--

CG: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.    
CG: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. 

He never forgets his quirk unless he's pretty shaken up. You're instantly on alert, bloodpusher pounding.

TA: the fuck ii2 happeniing, kk? 

CG: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.    
CG: YOU TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING.    
CG: WHY IS THERE A SHEET OF TROLL SKIN IN A GLASS INCUBATOR HERE WITH YOUR SIGN ON IT. 

Oh. That. KN said she had a good place for it, but you guess she never said she'd keep it _hidden_. Plus now that you know, it's kind of fun watching KK freak out -

TA: iif you were half the hacker you keep 2ayiing you want two be, you would have 2een the an2wer2 you 2eek iin my iinternet hii2tory already.   
CG: AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.   
CG: DID IT MOVE? I THINK IT MOVED.   
CG: I'M GOING TO BE DEVOURED BY SOME POOR SOD'S DISEMBODIED HIDE AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.   
TA: calm your exce22iively overwrought rumble 2phere2.   
TA: iif my cloned 2kiin ha2 learned two ambulate ii'll eat my maiinframe, bee2 and all.   
TA: becau2e that'2 liiterally iimpo22iible, ii mean not even ed could fuck up ablutiion trap biiohackiing that badly.   
CG: CAN YOU TRY CLONING YOURSELF SOMETHING USEFUL LIKE A CONNECTION WITH REALITY NEXT TIME?   
CG: AS MUCH AS I LOATHE TO ADMIT IT, WE ACTUALLY NEED YOU INTACT FOR THE NEXT STAGE OF THE PLAN, NOT MISSING BIG PATCHES OF SOLLUX THAT ARE HANGING OUT IN KANAYA'S HIVE AND TERRIFYING INNOCENT PASSERSBY.   
CG: ...ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY FUCKING SURE YOUR FREAKY PET CANNED BODY PARTS DON'T MOVE?   
TA: ii would have thought you'd be thriilled, there'2 more of me two hate.    
TA: 2eriiou2ly though, you may replace your lo2t 2hiit at your neare2t conveniience, thii2 ii2 ju2t a head 2tart on a 2ciience project that wiill theoretiically become nece22ary later.    
TA: even ii'm goiing two get con2ultant2 on board before growiing anythiing compliicated.   
CG: I WOULD SAY I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE UP TO THAT'S "THEORETICALLY" GOING TO GET EVEN WEIRDER THAN THIS SHIT BUT I THINK I'VE ALREADY GUESSED.   
CG: REALITY ISN'T IN THE HABIT OF JUST ROLLING OVER AND GIVING UP BECAUSE YOU WANT IT TO HARD ENOUGH AND ARE REALLY, REALLY PREPARED.   
CG: NONE OF US ARE GOING TO HAVE TIME TO PICK UP THE PIECES FOR YOU WHEN THIS IS ALL OVER.   
CG: LET ALONE PICK UP THE PIECES OF YOU, HAHAAUUUUUUUUUUGH TELL YOUR BIZARRE ABERRATIONS OF SCIENCE TO STOP DRIFTING AT ME LIKE THAT.   
TA: that'2 all riiight, feel free to enjoy the briilliiant fruiit2 of my obviiou2 iin2aniity whiile ii iineviitably 2elf-de2truct.   
TA: ii can hate my2elf enough for both of u2, very low maiintenance.

You bang out the words in a sudden vicious temper, use the macro that queues a "congratulatiion2, a22hole, you are 2tiill my kii2me2ii2" message to send automatically with the next Trollian sync - you're still mad and not in a sexy way, but you're not up for dealing with Karkat freaking out just now, either - and slam your husktop shut hard enough that it's fortunate you just reinforced the case.

~~~

Trolls weren't meant to hear the sounds FF's lusus makes, even at her quietest – you remember, from the time that didn't happen, something of the crushing unbearable roar of that voice, though the jagged unreal shapes of its waveforms slide from your memory like your mind can't contain the shape of it, leaving only echoes of pain and the taste of blood.

Fortunately, heavy machinery isn't trolls, and can be remotely operated.

It takes some doing – and making a few acquaintances – but ultimately it's not too hard to route a steakbeast supply train to a port on the remote sea coast near Gamzee's hive, where an ascending and descending construction apparatus scoops up the meandering herbivores and dumps them into the water.

It's a sight to behold.

Gl'b seems content with her new food source - at least, Feferi says so, and she's the expert. No one else can really get close enough to know. 

~~~

VK's plan makes you feel dirty just thinking about it, but you still have to implement it and ultimately you do. You've lost count of how many abandoned accounts you've owned, jacking their histories to create semi-credible sources to seed the rumors. (Rumors that even a troll with their quadrants and pails and testing papers in order might not survive, that some of the transport berths from academies to remote colonies were going to be gassed instead of opened into the light of an alien sun, that it could happen to a blueblood, to a seadweller, that you wouldn't know until they just disappeared completely - and the thing is, it's not _un_ true, exactly, you're just making it seem to happen more frequently than it already does, and to people more popular than your ilk -)

And every offplanet shithead you're disappearing into an informational void did an actual thing to get on your shit list - or was trying to escape from someone who did, and for the most part they're still alive (you can't keep adult trolls from getting themselves culled by normal means) but it's a headache to track them all and keep it plausibly deniable. You wind up setting a lot of bots running. 

Her Imperious Condescension would fight dirtier than this, if she knew what she was fighting. Already does, without knowing. You can't afford to be squeamish about propaganda. 

It's not hard to seed the information where it needs to be, then, because once they're beginning to doubt the system, once they're frantic and scared for their future, the way you were, the way you are, they start looking for it. It's not hard to help them find out that at least one Heiress presently exists. That she's going to actually seek out the challenge instead of evading it. That making sure she wins will change the world.

They come in ones and twos, delegates from FLARP sanctioning bodies and Future Threshecutioners of Alternia and particularly large and influential clades, and from seemingly every weird cult that's ever poked its sun-addled head out from under a rock. Nepeta arranges an array of remote, defensible, and suitably grand-looking wilderness meeting places that you draw from at random, and you background check each applicant more exactingly than the last. A liaison from a shadowy youth militia rumored to be among the most fanatically insistent on its members' strict adherence to Imperial doctrine comes forward, and you arrange a meeting that is designed to be more of an ambush than a reception – until she silently drops a necklace bearing Karkat's sign into Feferi's hand. The cult of the Signless is small and fractured from centuries of hiding in plain sight, but still you shiver thinking of shared fragments of memory of the distant past.

And still they keep coming, swearing oaths, hushed and awed or loudly, profanely amazed before Feferi. 

You make sure they know two things before they go on to join a project (and it was AA who told you, in the bored and dreamlike words of the departed, how to manage loyalty) - 

One, now that they've sworn, their voices will be heard; they can talk back, make suggestions, without fear of punishment, as long as they're not just being total assholes for the hell of it. They are, and will be treated, as a part of this now, adults and adolescents alike, even three-sweep juveniles merrily signing on to share their build credits. 

Two, they're part of this now, and you _see all_ (and someone you trust does when you don't) and if they try to sell you out their treachery will become obvious and be dealt with mercilessly. So if they came here and swore for bad reasons, fessing up is their last chance to survive. Offplanet assignment, secure, informational quarantine. They don't even have to tell you _why_ they're unsure they can remain loyal. You just want them where they can't fuck shit up. 

Of course, in order to set _that_ up as a possibility, you've had to make a bunch of offplanet contacts. Or at least background-check a bunch of offplanet contacts and make someone else talk to them. 

You built bots to scrape the seedy corners of the net for adults potentially sympathetic to your cause, guiltily basing their architecture on Astris' censorship program, and the hits started pouring in immediately – almost all of them complete junk. Of course, the counterrevolutionary measures on the Battleship Condescension are designed specifically to generate false positives to make examples of. You kept refining your algorithms, but at first any records that seemed to point to an adult with the training and competence to actually do anything about their revolutionary sensibilities just led you to trolls already culled – sometimes you knew without even having to pore through old Legislacerators' files because the trollhandle was familiar from Aradia's forwarded messages from the rebellious dead; in at least one case it was recent enough that you recognized the name from your own doomed voices.

But once you found _one_ real hit, then your bots had something to go on, and since then the leads have steadily trickled in. VK even lays out some breadcrumbs in the arcane mess of social networks and microblogging sites that highbloods and FLARP enthusiasts seem to frequent more than forums – you try not to read what she's actually saying any more than is necessary for security, but she brings in some promising adults that your searches missed. You scrutinize their histories until you're seeing Trollian conversations scroll by when you close your eyes, then manufacture reassignment documents for a select number of them, some to Alternia and some elsewhere. The Signless cultists function as eyes and ears anywhere in this process that your bots can't reach.

The spaceport you've chosen has been, for a long time, a secondary point of access for the province, located between Aradia's hive and the ocean. Long ago she tipped you off to the ruins of what was the old capital city there, before that was moved by a few kilometers in the process of eradicating a rebellion, then deprecated in relevance by adult activities shifting offplanet. It's on enough important routes that it never really became uninhabited, but for a long time it hasn't really been a _place_ , just a transit hub, surrounded by suburban hivestems; the spaceport is operated by a skeleton crew, so you can promote officers out of it and others into it at a slow trickle and still have the whole place silently owned by sympathizers in a sweep and a half, although you won't have time to meet them all face to face until the final night.

Meanwhile, with all the grist the young recruits are bringing in, you have some building to do – well, for once _you_ don't, personally; you just scrape the dark web for archived snippets of ancient texts about the Heiress' challenge and hand off a cache of fragmentary and mostly corrupted data to Terezi for legal vetting. The standards for constructing the arena are exacting and very old and require a monumental amount of build grist, and you stay out of the bickering about millennia-old Imperial tradition in a futile effort to preserve the remnants of your sanity, but somewhere near the spaceport the venue for the final battle takes shape.

 

CURRENT gallowsCalibrator [CGC] RIGHT NOW responded to memo ii wiill go back and ban every 2iingle one of you at every poiint iin your re2pectiive faiil2auce tiimeliine2 2o help me.

GC: QU3ST1ON FOR TH3 DOUBL3 LOB3D L3GUM3 G4LL3RY   
GC: WH4T ON 4LT3RN14 1S 4 CUB1T? >:/   
CA: howw many times do i havve to tell you   
GC: 4NYON3 1N TH3 DOUBL3 LOB3D L3GUM3 G4LL3RY 3XC3PT MY 3ST33M3D COMP4TR1OT ON TH3 CONSTRUCT1ON COMM1TT33 PL34S3   
CA: excuse you im the expert on delicate matters a long standin protocol for a reason   
CA: seadwwellers have long memories you knoww   
GC: OK BUT YOUR3 7 SW33PS OLD   
CA: if you sniffed a calendar or somethin evvery once in a wwhile then you mighta remembered my wwrigglin day last perigee    
CA: and i knoww wwhat a cubit is you meddlin stickler now can wwe get to allocatin the build grist already   
AA: they say its the distance between a trolls elb0w and f0refinger   
AA: and that it was cust0mary in the 0ld days t0 use their enemies actual appendages f0r the measurement   
AA: but im sure y0u can find another s0luti0n   
CG: I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD SAY THIS BUT WHERE THE FUCK IS SOLLUX WHEN YOU NEED HIM?   
CG: NO BUILD DETAILS IN THE MEMO, YOU BUNCH OF OVERSIZED BLATHERING SQUAWKBLISTERS.   
CA: sorry kar   
GC: 1 TOLD YOU 1T W4SNT H4LF 4 F4THOM   


~~~

 

==> Helmsman: the body remembers.

Sometimes respite is flight, precision and derivations and the shape of the universe bending around you. Other times it is eavesdropping, rummaging through your databanks for scraps of language and narrative to hang onto, following highbloods following their soap operas. 

Other times - and this is new, this is the change in the rhythm of your unchangeable nights and days - it exists only in the distance, in the form of a name you cannot, _must not_ think, and it's enough that you know that much, enough that you know your consciousness is divided. Which it always has been. 

You sleep in halves, but you do sleep; a mandatory cycle initiated by ship systems when you aren't running at maximum - and sometimes you have the consciousness and spare resources to reach out into true-dream, and other times only wane into the dreams you know to recognize as falsehoods - 

But you don't _fail to sleep._ That's not an option. You barely even remember insomnia, except in the sense of remembering that it is a thing which used to happen to you, decades of experience worn to a thin scrap of fact. 

_& partition=0005872$status=000:nominal... &partition=0005873$status=001:rebuilding... &pa. interrupt. report level=004&neural cluster=rh328$status=022:unexpected input. resuming scan... &partition=0005874…_

It's - when did that happen? Nerves that belong to your hand keep trying to clench it, over and over again, a reflex path reconstructed where there was nothing for so long, and of course the command to _move_ does not, will not succeed, but you can feel - it's like the muscle stimulation routine is being applied to the ruin of your hand, for some reason utterly beyond you, and every time it twitches that sets off a wave of signals, pain at every junction point where the wires enter, normally blunted by stillness, and that makes the cycle repeat. It's also enough to surpass the central blocking and wake you -

Your wakefulness triggers a status query and a stream of low-level error codes, but at least neither the pain itself nor the inexplicable stimulus at the root of it maps exactly to any of the status conditions that would set off a larger alarm. But you can't just stuff this sharp pulling pain into a dim corner of unused long-term memory either, not rooted as close to critical navigation outputs as it is, and you're streaming hundreds of possible hotfixes through crosscheck long before you're fully awake. For now, patching yourself before this gets out of hand ( _ehehe_ ) is your best chance of avoiding technicians or worse. 

Outside, your hull is solid, course steady, nothing near in the dark but diffuse hydrogen wisps and clouds of interstellar dust. No effect on sensors or communications – something changes, and your focus crowds back in, concentration centered on that scrap of atrophied, malfunctioning gray flesh. Ten seconds since the last twinge, eleven, twelve.

The malfunction has stopped on its own. You don't quite recognize the momentary icy clench in the pit of your stomach as loss.

~~~

But it returns. (You knew it would, by some wisp of precognition or by thought processes racing ahead of your conscious awareness.) It does not seem to follow a recognizable pattern or cycle, only wakes you from half-dozing chemical sleep or blazes sudden and unanticipated down your ulnar nerve in phantoms of sensor feedback like a weapons backfire. It happens in either hand, and that seems at random as well. The percentage of your cognitive resources consumed in stopping the tremor is variable but small. If it were only that -

If it were only that. One night you get a jolt from the muscle that runs from hip to knee - that one is a major enough muscle group that at first you think it _is_ the electrical stimulation routine, but it doesn't continue on, only the one insistent clenching, and this time you can locate the source - one of the places where a wire bores in, like the nerves in whatever is left of skin and fascia have taken notice of the intrusion they've been inured to for uncountable sweeps.

You knew, you have always known: that seizing back what they have taken from you is its own punishment.

There was never a _reason_ to endure that. No reason except for the lie of hope, one more claw-hold for her that you viciously reject. Now, there _is_ , and the awareness of _what_ it is remains just out of your grasp, and you are familiar enough with the shape and contour of barricades you set to conceal something from yourself, to take it on faith that you have. 

The spread would be slow except that it only takes perigees, a sweep at most, and you have whole centuries of immaculately stored memory that you haven't had occasion to call upon for centuries more. So it is fast, like the whole ship catching ablaze and burning to molten collapse might be, and painful. You awaken to embers under your skin, clots of buried pain at wire-bores that neither cauterize nor heal, once searing into your hipbone, once in the sole of your foot, and you have to record temperature readings and open the eyes of the cameras and look vainly for swelling, for signs of infection that you know you won't find, though you still don't know why.

You wake to rings of sharp taunting flame-tongues encircling your eyes that go from spearing to rasping to bone-deep determined _itching_ that makes you want to claw the damn goggles off first before dying. You almost miss a jump timing that night when half your face seizes, one corner of your mouth drawing back into a rictus in mid-leap, and in a red blur of pain you input nonsense for a minor valve adjustment that you have to correct manually, pulling back on power. No matter how much information you move and process and subdivide your thinkpan feels heavy, like there's always a backlog of calculations waiting to push in; you're running milliseconds slow and the delay drags at you like a countercurrent of radiation on your prow, like claws holding you back.

That the techs would notice, that _she_ would notice, is a conclusion already drawn. It doesn't take the voice of prophecy to tell. It is a known quantity.

Yet you are afraid. You cannot say of _what_ ; only that you know how to remove yourself impassively from fear that only lives in the flesh (surge of stress hormones, bloodpusher drumming hard behind the sternal casing, all of this only reactive -) and this is not that; _you_ are afraid. Afraid of _losing_ \- losing something connected to this -

But why -

She knows, too, she must, that when the task item _performance concherence_ comes up it will fill you with a building dread; if she did not, you would not receive warning. 

...And you _are_ glitching, worse than you sometimes think you are; the system tells you Her Condescension didn't deactivate the camera feed on her approach the way she sometimes does, but whole seconds are dropped out from your memory of it as she steps into the helmsblock, barefoot and with her hair tumbling down around her ankles, strangely abhorrently radiant as she draws nearer.

Her lips purse, a mockery of pale affection. "You poor wasted fin, you're floundering," she says. She reaches out and cups your face in her hand, and you could almost take her for apologetic except that when you flinch at the sting of her saltwater touch against old wounds that feel new, it only stretches the eerie hollow smile across her face. "... So sensitive, tonight," she murmurs, and she must have already known it, and something about the way she _appreciates_ it - "I wonder why." 

_That is not usually your purview_ , you output to the wires, leaving the gaunt body in the helmsblock unmoving except for the reflexive flinching that you no longer have reason to will down. 

You are still running your hourly full-system life support check, still keeping a steady heading toward a dim blue-star waypoint, still taking in asterrornomical data on a brightening nebula thousands of light-sweeps to port and to nadir, wading past the clamor of muscle and nerve to do those things because you must and because those parts of you are as far from the Empress' black-lipped smirk as you ever get ( _at least within the memory that you can see_ ) – and you'll need that detachment to steel yourself for the next part, to make it tolerable and to make the bait attractive, both; you must go right up to the line, she must think she has seen everything there is to see, in order to be convinced that the part she needs to ignore is the part you must be trying to throw up as a distraction to protect yourself - 

And she pounces, as always, at any suggestion that you might reject her authority. Not angry, not on the surface; nearly purring, enthralled by the game. "But it is my _bassness_ ," she says. "You are, and must remain, the best ship in the fleet." And you can already see the direction she's turning, just a little nudge needed to trigger the game where she becomes invested in your failure by pretending to become invested in your success, wallows in _disappointment_ while setting you unpredictable barriers (and, some part of you hopes, forgets that it wasn't her idea to begin with -)

 _Am I, still_? There is no inflection in speaking this way; no way beyond short defeated-flat phrases to bluff run-dry exhaustion and creeping weakness and sickening slips of control if those things did not already show through in sallow skin and broken readouts. But she has spent lifetimes stalking your vulnerabilities, she is _looking_ for pain always, and she will see what she seeks as in a mirror. Your gamma telescopes track too slowly, lose the light of their target nebula, refocus. A muscle in your shoulder that was detached from its insertion point when the wires first went in throbs and pulls at nothing. _I continue to function at the highest performance level available to me within the parameters of my operating environment_ , which is true but only because you're forced, and the words sound in your head like a muddle of cringing-meek and mocking that you flinch from internally before speaking.

"Whale," the Empress says, in a low murmur, looming too close, always too close. "We'll just have to change those parameters, then," and her voice is all hidden sharpnesses, cheerful tones thinly concealing the zeal you know too well - that her viciousness locks on like a targeting system and once it's set, it holds its course. 

She confers with techs as though you aren't capable of listening. (The ones who are uncomfortable with this - you've inferred from their behavior that even where most helmsmen are treated as things and not trolls, discussing maintenance in front of them is at least considered _indelicate_ \- tend to get reassigned, sometimes out an airlock; by now it is long habit to remain utterly impassive during these affairs, so as not to give the Empress or her top subjugglators an excuse to punish a perceived moment of empathy.)

"Your Condescension," the lead tech says rather more loudly than needed in the confines of the helmsblock, addressing his report decisively in the direction of the Empress' knees with the forced cadence of a memorized speech. Your programming automatically calls up his record: cerulean and boring, no subversive interests, not many interests at all really outside of obscure starship components. You dismiss the information; you hardly have the input capacity any longer to be listening both in this conversation and everywhere else your presence is required. "My team has reached the conclusion that the probable consequences of increasing our current operation-disruptive stimuli mitigation measures outweigh any possible performance benefits. The substances in use carry a near certainty of cognitive impairment and a not insignificant likelihood of fatality to the pilot at dosages above the current level." You think the tech managed that all in one breath; his face is white as a blank readout screen. "As such, I – uh, the team recommends against Your Highness' recommended course of action. However, it is possible that experimental palliatives may emerge in coming sweeps –"

A nerve in your neck takes the opportunity to notice it exists and prickle phantoms of scalding heat up through your skull. You remember, blurrily and very long ago, working through migraines as though nothing was happening, like what you're doing now on such a miniscule scale that your systems would hardly register those symptoms now if they appeared. You prohibit the muscles of your face from moving like holding a broken aileron steady.

The Condesce ignores the rest of the tech's sentence. "I don't _care_ aboat that," she says pointedly. "Tell me what we can do _now_ ," and her voice is whining and petulant but _careful_ , you're just cognizant enough to recognize that she isn't anywhere near an actual tantrum, only looking for a particular response and putting on a show to get it.

"If we postpone arrival at the next target by a perigee," the tech addresses the Condesce's ankles, adding hurriedly, "Possibly less if the adjustment can be precisely calculated – it would be possible to draw down the current treatments until the pilot's dependence on them is somewhat reduced, without posing a safety risk to the flagship. Administration of analgesics at present levels could then be resumed to greater effect when needed. Some medics believe that this course of action has been overdue for sweeps, but the delay to the glorious mission of the Battleship Condescension did not seem feasible, or –"

"Yes, yes, I get the tidea," the Condesce says, and her lips press to a bored line. "No postponement. We'll go faster for a whale, then all have a little _vacraytion_ ," and you know just from tone and context that she means cutting your painkiller drips down to the very minimum, and you can't bring yourself to be afraid of that, preoccupied only with now, with the unsuspicious tech despairing of your ill keeping. 

Because you are in no condition to jump the journey is a sprint skirting the lower boundary of light speed, power wrenched from you as soon as you can form it, thrown into velocity as sensors blink nonsense readings interrupted by screaming bursts of input from your body twisting in the helmsblock. You keep almost expecting to be _forced_ to slow, that your psionic production will malfunction like the rest of you. But this agony is not a _weakening_ of your body, just the opposite, and you keep making enough, more than enough light, as your own fruitlessly healing fingers gnaw at you and your consciousness flinches away into acceleration and direction.

Even when she is not in the helmsblock, she keeps a viewport open. You feel her watching through the wires, shark-toothed delight, a scavenger's curiosity hovering around a foundered animal. Centuries ago this was your every night without ceasing, but the waiting and being watched never became more bearable with time, and there was never anything to learn about stopping her, no matter how you sifted through behaviors like astronomical data, seeking a pattern.

Jolts of off-course feedback jab at you as you slow, wobbling into the light and tidal gravity of your destination star system. You settle into an orbit that would drift out of the ecliptic if you stayed here for more than a sweep or two but still barely satisfies the parameters you've been given, turn your focus in and begin the slow process of rebooting one by one the systems that your neural interference has crashed or glitched… when a thought comes to you, slipped in between subroutines, unbidden, _this is the beginning of the end_. 

You expect to find relief in that, but fear surfaces instead, sharp and fleeting and entirely different from the ancient dread you know so well, and there is nothing there to tell you why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems an appropriate time and place to thank all of our betas, past, present and future! Let's see, so far that's... solluxisms, chlorinetrifluoride, YesVirginia, manyblinkinglights, trickshire, madamformicidae - hopefully I haven't forgotten any names here (and let us know if you would prefer to be credited by different names or handles as various of you have changed them from time to time.) Your watchful eyes have kept us from making a good few bloopers and your assistance is much appreciated!


	10. just because you've forgotten, doesn't mean you're forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do your voices say, when you give yourself in pity to _her_ blood and bone? Those doomed by _her_ caprice, do they even stoop to speak to you in that pile of sea-wrack? Or can the Heiress' touch silence even those not yet dead?" _Does my shade claw at your conscience yet, Sollux? Or am I still silent – silent again, since you_ – 
> 
> Your mind is still tangled up in his, not knowing if you even tried to hold that back, your thinkpan throwing words out barely hearing them itself – there are lines that you do not cross out loud and lines that you do not cross at all and _that_ –
> 
> And then there are lines that you don't see before you cross them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: relationship arguments, jealousy, dissociation, brain problems, suicidality, people being badly triggered and taking it out on each other, body horror, neuroplasticity horror, that thing where the Condesce is her own warning tag. 
> 
> We wrote this and cried and then we edited it and cried and refused to post it until it felt resolved properly and edited it again and cried moar and crying is cool and having a dry shirt is overrated.

Sollux is

 _(– feigned solicitous-unyielding interest, mad eyes, sharp-tined fins and hair that drags flowing-sopping over wires – "You can't hide your waveforms from me. Teel me what's wrong so I can kelp, shelly stubborn thing – On the other fin, we_ cod _always run some tests instead, hold seal –")_

tinkering with the inputs and outputs of a graph, presented as _bees entering and leaving a hive_ , it is obviously something else that you don't and can't know – there are

 _(hands and arms bejeweled-dripping, proffering tortuous_ care _, razor-grin that tilts into wrigglerish glee –)_

complicated rules for how many bees can enter and leave in successive iterations, algorithms that start with the initial "day" and evolve from there, and he's chattering as he sets it up, talking about his moirail – 

You should be better at this now, you _have_ been better at this, ship and body narrowed to a point and nearly out of view, but even sitting cross-legged with Sollux in the replica of his hive, listening to his nightly life, you can't rid yourself of the feeling of _her_ fingers, like they'll hunt and find you even here – and your memory is functioning like a vastly more simple system, one of those ancient recording devices bearing one track that plays beginning to end, film progressing in its spin no matter how you try to tug and nudge your thinkpan parallel, to play _anything_ else – 

He leans back on his hands and yawns. "I always forget she actually needs me," he says, "I don't think I've ever seen her scared like that, she's just… not the stereotype, you know? She's the highblood but I'm the one who's shithive maggots – "

There's a sense of hidden alarm when he talks about the seadweller girl; something you hid away from yourself because it would be too dangerous to recall. 

"– and, I mean, she's not Aradia. No one else is ever Aradia – but we take care of each other, even if she's more aggressive about feelings jams than I'd be, it's still… it's what I need, too –"

Usually when you're here you feel almost free of _her_ icy splinters in you, those parts of you carefully shoved back behind locked gates, but his speech these days feels sprinkled with crumbs of truth you're forbidden from following, granular knowledge-fragments that catch in the folds of your thinkpan and _itch_ , and you're deadpan-neutral to steady both of you, keeping to open questions, generalities, letting him fill your head with the numbing buzz of the quotidian – 

"You're still so overstrung lately, it's hard to believe you've spent a minute on a pile in the last sweep – but then, when is one of us not stretched a little thin –" You elbow his ribs, halfhearted, distracted – memory short-circuited, eyes of your mind averted from the wire-cross but sliding –

Maybe Sollux doesn't see how thinly _you're_ stretched. But by now it's more likely by far that he does see, and knows it's easier for you when he just keeps talking – feeds you morsels of outside experience that you can lose yourself in like moonlight. 

Usually it's easier. Right now it doesn't make you feel any less like screaming when he goes on, chuckling – "Well, it was a seaweed-pile, but – compromises, right?" Then he goes quiet, head-tilted, pensive. "We're making progress," he says, referring to objectives he can only hint at. "But there's a lot to be scared of. And so much timing to micromanage. Her own plate is so full – we barely have time together that isn't working, not unless one of us needs it desperately."

A sick swoop of shame inside, like fingers squirming in your stomach – you've learned a coexistence with the unfathomable weapon's guilt, but these petty self-hatreds angle against your soft spots – _you're_ angry, frightened, pale-needy, not looking at his hands as if that will help you keep from imagining them dappling at your face, he knows your feelings break through quadrants but you _shouldn't_ –

– you can't _help_ , haven't contributed anything substantive to his calculations since he arrived, but still he comes to you when he has – when he has –

– the seaweed-pile, seadwellers content with shallows and the ones who of necessity seek out the deep, seek to drag it up with them, even up into the dark, past the moons – the lapping and the stinging around your ankles, more and more often you half-feel, twinges and traces – and the lock on the part of your mind where his deepest and most dangerous secret lives just rusts away, as if the salt-water has invaded even your thinkpan now; and in borrowed memory you see a face.

And you know. And all the reasons that justified your capitulation before tear clean through, a flimsy pity-spun film over fanged visceral horror.

"...because your moirail is _hers_. No – _don't_ ask me to apologize for remembering. Don't –" You wanted his hand on your cheek, that you see in your mind's eye, see hallucinatory here in dream dripping seawater, you can't turn to him without the stench of salt – knowing who – and you wanted him to _touch_ you – "Don't _dare_ –" 

You close your eyes and for a moment you need every cell in your thinkpan for reining yourself in, power that wants to snatch up and _push_ – you made a promise about leaving, weak dwarfed words under the seethe of light that slams in and boils beneath your skin, have to get out now, release this into the ship or leave him broken in your wake –

"Astris – _no_ -" And the look on his face will stay with you, shocked and lost and _furious_ and protective, and the part of you that will make sense of this later, now submerged under seawater and anguish, will marvel over his instinct to protect his friends, will be quietly glad that he's defending his life outside of you – 

Sollux catches at your wrist, incandescent with his own shielding out to the tips of his fingers, touch that sears and shocks and focuses you so hard here that the pinprick awareness of your distant body that you haven't been able to shake fades into the black of space and you sheer off a thunderclap of power in warning, light but also motion, shaking the dream-air around you, growling into and through it "Do _not_ touch me –"

His hand hovers there, still in contact even if not with your skin, light crackling and snapping back and forth between his fingers and your wrist, to the point where the buzz of it hurts – "If you're remembering, you _must_ remember why you locked it away – _I am in danger_ , Astris. You're not thinking clearly. If you let it slip, the consequences for all of us – Would you see me go to a traitor's death – if I'm _lucky_ –" You're numbly aware that he's reaching for the buttons he can find to try to contain this, but right now it's only waving daymares in your face –

Your knees go weak and tendon-loose as his power washes up into you, threatening to fold, your eyelids droop, you've taught yourself through both habit and intention to lean into the signature of his power, acknowledge its touch as proof of a claim, give him time to get through to you – and he's _had_ time, oh, he's gotten through, you claw his hand away with a swipe of light and stagger straight again, pain forgotten, and spit – "What do your voices say, when you give yourself in pity to _her_ blood and bone? Those doomed by _her_ caprice, do they even stoop to speak to you in that pile of sea-wrack? Or can the Heiress' touch silence even those not yet dead?" _Does my shade claw at your conscience yet, Sollux? Or am I still silent – silent again, since you_ – 

Your mind is still tangled up in his, not knowing if you even tried to hold that back, your thinkpan throwing words out barely hearing them itself – there are lines that you do not cross out loud and lines that you do not cross at all and _that_ –

And then there are lines that you don't see before you cross them. 

His mouth works for a moment and he stammers out, "I'm not doing this for your goddamned gratitude and I'm not doing it for my moirail – I'm doing this because I'd hate myself too much to live if I didn't _try_ –" And the _this_ in his sentence is a looming blank and Sollux has blocked himself into a corner and the plaintive frustrated note in his voice almost makes you want to crumble, to reach out with empathy, if you were only a little more _here_ – but he's still talking, and there's a tangle of fear and anger like a wall in him, shutting you out, defensive, bitter, _stung_ – "But I should have known, I should have expected you'd – She's had you for a thousand sweeps, you _know_ she's gotten into your head, how can I possibly expect to compete, nothing _we_ share is ever going to make a difference to it, so go on, put your misery ahead of our opsec, _she'll_ be there when I'm gone –"

"If I could stand to touch you right now, I would claw you to _atoms_ -" You aren't screaming, you're speaking one syllable at a time, forcing your jaw through it, there's so much layered onto your voice that you're grimly surprised to hear it coming out words at all, focused on him, a lensed beam. He's bared his throat to you; well, _fuck_ him, you won't bite. 

His ( _exquisitely ordinary – common as a beating heart, common as an unfurling leaf, so perfectly pitiful_ –) his terror that in the end, he means nothing to you – no. He doesn't get to _wallow_ , what you can't force into your voice of rage that sounds like raveled devotion like necessity like longings of the body like sundering-enfolding light you will push out through your mind. You flash a glimpse of her time-mad laughing despicable eyes at him just enough to leave an afterimage before you snarl, fangs-bared glaring _measuring_ slow-raking stare – "Nothing _she_ can do can ever surprise or disappoint me, Sollux. But _you_ , stooping to –" _To the deepest, the only insult that can be offered to a slave_ – "I am immeasurably disappointed." 

You know it hits him like a blow, even before his face changes; you hear it in his breath, the way it clicks almost imperceptibly on the inhale before he speaks, his fists tighten at his sides and finally his near-blank expression settles out into actual rage. "And you're _making my point again_ ," he says. "You would conflate my moirail with _her_ – bad enough, but I can at least understand – but now you're looking for her in _me_."

 _Not her – but the one I see in you is hardly any better_ , you sneer at him in your mind, so clotted up with bile and loathing that even amped-up pain and fuchsia-and-black gleaming-fanged terror are dissolving in its acid drip, and now your thinkpan knows just where to sink claws in his to open up old blister-skinned soft places, it doesn't want to _stop_ – 

"No matter how deep you rip into me," he says, and his voice is ragged, tired, "you won't find that. If you reach through me to my friends and quadrants and open them to the worst – all you'll find is a bunch of young trolls who were trying to help. Until you gave _her_ the tools to destroy another descendant and secure her rule for another century. Is that what you want?" His voice cracks, shrill, unhinged. "Is that what you're going to do? – All because you can tell me over and over again that I shouldn't deny myself quadrants for whatever length of time I even have, but you can't _respect_ my fucking _judgment_ –"

You're both past the point where anger has its own inertia, where it barrels forward like an asteroid, no engines, no stabilizers, just going until it runs into something sufficient to stop it, and you _hurt_ , and the ugliness of things you've thought in your worst moments is still pouring out of your mouth – "Do you _want_ me silent and sealed off here? Is that what you want from me? Because if respecting your judgment means you hide your betrayals behind my limitations and then expect some meek complicit affirmation of your debasement from me then you think even less of me than I think of myself. Tell me, have you ever _really_ seen me as a troll separate from your own mind or am I just another problem to play at solving –" Something warm drips down your fingers, blood from your claws biting into your palms, illusory, doesn't matter – power stings the welts like a salt-rub, holds you crackling above the floor and glaring down at him. 

Sollux can't be anything but icily hostile in response, you know it from the inside, the way white-hot brittle rage hides itself under layers of dignity, and it still doesn't make it any better to _see_ him closing you out like this, his posture drawn up stiffly and his power a tight shell around his skin. " _I_ am signed on for your fucked-up 'pan and everything that entails, you know that just as you know I'm willing to debase myself before you, tear myself to shreds for you, even when I shouldn't be," and for a moment you're sure he's twisting your words on purpose; then you're not sure, but too angry-numb for it to matter – "– but I _won't break the trust of my friends_ – not for you, not for any one of them, _not for my moirail either_ , that is not a thing that is _ever_ fucking happening on my watch and if I have to tear myself in _half_ I'll do it gladly first. _Remember_ my betrayal, if you want to call it that, if you want to hurt yourself for no reason; remember what a contemptible jerk I am, that I'm an all-around shithead who takes advantage of you –" And for a moment it reaches you that this isn't performative, watching him dig into himself with one half of his thinkpan and into you with the other, and you suddenly disjointedly want to shout at him about bad tactics, but he's still going – "Betray _me_ , if you must, tell them my face and my name and what and where I am, I'd like to see them _try_ –" And then he breaks off. "No. Don't. If there were anyone else who could do my job – but there isn't, and I'm stuck, and this goes beyond your life and mine –"

"I wouldn't. I won't. I never will. They could hold up the one thing I want in front of me and ask only for you in return and I would spit in their eyes – and how you used to wince when I said that – now here you are _asking_ me to say it, well. I could be called back into my prison _now_ and in the nanosecond it would take me to laugh in your face and disappear I would go right back to living without half my thinkpan in order to guard your image. And you think you've reduced yourself for me – heh – no matter how you've protested, you still say it as if it was such a point of pride for you –" And yes, somewhere beneath this is the pitch desire to knock him low before anyone else gets the chance, but this is more than that, this is – you would reach through space and cull that giggling miniature of _her_ yourself, horribly misplaced vessel of your secret – of all the trolls on Alternia he could have chosen – and he leaves and you have _no one_ – 

"And your band of hopeless causes –" Your words come out slow, heavy with exhaustion. "If you really think I would lay waste to my one chance at an end to my torment out of simple anger at you, then you overestimate the extent of your significance to me. I would betray your friends without a thought, every one of them, I would watch all Alternia go dark, I have done _worse_ , just to abate my pain for a while – but as long as they are the instrument of your promise – or. _Or_. Are you tempted to go back on your pledge, then? Not quite crazy enough to cull your matesprit and take the whole world down with him after all? So easy, a slip of the tongue or of the mind, and suddenly I _know_ – a vicious, unpredictable, half-crazed tool of Empire, savage enough to reveal everything, and it's all over – _try_ to tell me you haven't thought about it –"

"What you're telling me is that you've thought of it yourself," Sollux says, low and rough, no longer shouting. "I know what it's like to be obsessed with failure to the point where you start to steer towards it – and you sound like me when I'm like _that_ , and it scares the crap out of me." He doesn't really answer your question, and his eyes are downcast and maddeningly unreadable. "If you think I don't still have petty self-destructive fantasies, you haven't been paying any goddamn attention, even to what I _can_ say – which I guess shows who's turning away from -" You draw yourself up to speak, but abruptly, somewhere where you cannot see the workings of it, he meets whatever force is strong enough to stop the movement of his asteroid, and shakes his head. "No. I'm not going to keep standing here and – no. I'm not going to keep _standing_ here. I'm just going to hurt you more if I do."

And there have been times when the contact breaks in waking, times when he's interrupted, and this is not like any of those; this is – you feel the deliberation of his focus as Sollux closes it down, narrows the connection to a point, as the dreamspace shrinks to become a distant apparition.

~~~

==>Sollux: try to pick up the pieces.

It always feels like a shock, but you've learned it so many times before – that the world doesn't stop, just because everything is horribly wrong. 

You're still training hackers to manage untraceable build grist transfers, still moderating memos and running Trollian security updates, assigning bots to follow troop movements and message them to your compatriots, keeping moving because you have to. TZ hovers over you when she comes by the hive to pick up a secure signal relay and complains that you smell of spite and dead things, then when you answer just "Yeah," insists on making you eat something, no matter how scandalously quadrant-crossing that might seem. 

You don't _want_ to eat something and you're not even sure what was in that nutrition basin, except that it tasted like sawdust and you put it down your throat so Feferi wouldn't have to waste her time chasing after you too. You don't want to anything. You don't know if you can make this better, you don't know if there _is_ a better when you can't just give up your stubbornness, when there's someone to protect on either side of you, and you wonder if you have the strength to carry this, without – 

You _would_ , though, you would still, even if he hated you to the end or worse _disdained_ you, if you still had the slightest access, even if he sabotaged you at every turn. In between being a complete fucking asshole, you were right: there's too much riding on this now. And even if there weren't – you could burn yourself to cinders ending his torment and be a meritorious footnote to history, an instrument of this thing that's always been larger than you, and it would be worth it, even if he never – 

And you're making yourself the hero in your head here when you were just a total asshole, and you're going to fry your keyboard if you keep getting tears in it, and you have a stack of shit to get through before you can see FF. 

~~~

You stop recording time in nights and days sometimes. This, theoretically, should defend you from queries about how many nights you've been up; but Feferi manages to get you to string together a loose-tongued account of sixty-two hours, and why; and accepts it, somehow – the senseless muddle of anger, the knowledge of how Astris thinks of her – nonchalant as the ocean swallowing a flaming wreck. _How do you not take things personally_ , you want to ask her, but you don't think you could understand her answer right now, even if you could get the question out.

Even the chatter of voices seems to come through a thick wall of mist, and your thinkpan is blessedly disconnected from the concept of tomorrow.

"Trolls _do_ need sleep," she murmurs to you. "Efin _I_ have to sleep."

"But you can keep swimming while you sleep." You're not sure if you're trying to say you're jealous or trying to say it doesn't count. The point seemed important when you opened your mouth, then got lost by the end of the sentence.

"You do that too, Sole-lux," she says, a gentle whisper. "But you don't have to, if you don't want to." 

Even that reminder hurts a little less, with her here. "Mmh," you say, and curl deeper into the pile of data solids. You were going to try to read their labels – 

Someone thinking more clearly than you might take that for a sign you aren't thinking clearly.

Feferi is singing some quiet, strange, slow song, each note of it a long drawn-out breath, and the sick-scared frustration of not knowing if you will dream or not dream, if you will emerge into anger or emptiness, fades into a distant trepidation; and you hear, in your head, a conversation with Aradia from long ago: _But you must think I'm so stupid,_ , you'd said, after she talked you out of some manic bullshit, and layered through Feferi's singing, you hear Aradia's voice, like they're both here with you at once; saying, _Everyone is stupid – Part of being smart is surrounding yourself with people who are going to stop you when you're being stupid –_

~~~

You drift for a while before lucidity arises –

You know what the possibility of the dreamspace feels like, in sleep and waking, the way it feels when Astris has enough mind free and isn't blocking you out, when you can hook into his power and pull the place together – but not for over a sweep, since the very beginning, has he resorted to constructing the space himself, cavernous-dark and featureless without your shaping influence – it pushes at the back of your mind like water behind a levy, blackness and the half-heard sympathetic sound of footfalls, drifting bits of consciousness as the space pulls close – you could fall into it like falling asleep, but if he has felt you orbiting its edges then here in the void between dreams there is no sign –

\- and you let yourself be drawn in, quiet, furtive, hovering at the edges. Its solidity changes in response to you, but not fully, objects shaping themselves in outline, in silhouette; like your hive, but a darkened colorless replica, the space you stumble through with the shades drawn and the lights off, the same block but at once unfamiliar. You're there and not there, which resolves to being in a doorway in the dark, not quite sure you belong inside – 

Astris paces past you once, eyes turned to the the floor but too dim to really illuminate it, before he notices that anything has changed, turning underwater-slow to look at you on the threshold of your own hive, just look, eyes shadowed even in their glow and mouth pressed into a fanged weary line, mind closed. Age doesn't usually spill into his dream-presence like this, and you can't be sure even now if the wavering creases around the corners of his face are projected or imagined, a pinprick leak of his sealed-away consciousness or a trick of poor light – but when he speaks he sounds old, raspy-weakened, not a change that just anyone would notice, but you know him. "So you're here." Flat to almost uninflected, but then he steps back as if to make room for you to come in without getting too close. "You questioned my allegiance in ways that would have gotten anyone else culled before they could finish a sentence, and I seem to have forbidden myself from remembering why. I don't know what I need that you can give me."

And you do inch forward, just a little, casting details out around you as you step in, your memory bringing fuzziness into form "Go ahead and remember, while you're here. If you're quite sure you won't be called away." You clasp your hands together to force them not to shake, raise them up to your face and rub your forehead, eyes downcast, avoiding his. Even conciliated and sung-to you're enervated; making yourself stand upright isn't supposed to be this difficult, but you hardly deserve to relax; your mind is already trying to muster a snide answer, something dismissive that will make you feel a little less shitty about yourself for a while and more so later, and you won't let it. "So long as you remember the whole thing. Feel free to tell me what a colossal walking waste chute I am. I'll live. I can't promise I won't get angry if you insult my moirail again. I don't think I've ever met a troll who wouldn't get angry about that." – And you realize you're justifying, and shut yourself down. "I was completely fucking horrible to you, though. I'm not going to try to pretend that didn't happen." You don't apologize, not quite yet; you have the feeling he wouldn't hear you and it wouldn't mean what it needed to. Better to save your breath.

In your periphery you watch his face twist as it all comes into focus – he steps back again, his eyes clouding so dark the colors go almost indistinguishable – not shocked anymore, just drained, low and flattened still, "Oh, I – what are you _doing_ to yourself –" he shakes his head again, you know his movements even not looking at him, almost feel him trembling with nights' stopped-up confusion of feeling and exhaustion and – something more, some other distress, his voice ragged – "This is useless, isn't it? Nothing I could say or do – or be for you or give you – would stop your thinkpan turning against you, or you going to _her_ for it. I could threaten to leave, but we both know about how far that flies. Please just – tell me honestly if there's anything I can do to stop you. Anything at all."

It isn't what you were expecting – and you want to break down, to reach for him and close your eyes and tell him to forget all this – you wish you could, yourself; wish that you could erase the way you ripped into him and the things he said and shove it all somewhere it would never come back. That you could make yourself simple as a wriggler, for a while, stop having to think and to care so goddamn much it pulls you in a thousand directions, though it's true what you said before, that you'd tear yourself in half for him if you thought it would help.

But it wouldn't.

You look at your feet, focus on breathing. "Ask yourself," you say finally. "Ask yourself what I _am_ doing, really. Because there was a time when I was interested in her for being dangerous. But I get my fill of that now. I'm _over_ that thing. This isn't about acting out. This isn't about playing games. I'm more intelligent than you're giving me credit for, Astris, please -" and you make a tiny miserable noise and catch yourself and let out a cautious breath and look up at him, at last, guarded and tear-blurred and tense. "Please _see_ that – I said it in the worst way possible before, but there's a veil over your eyes – and I know you can't see my moirail beyond that, but try to see _me_ -"

"It has never been your intelligence that has worried me," and he is chewing on his lip and raising his eyes to stare straight at you, taking your demand at face value – blinks and digs in with his fangs and there's a catch to his voice that is not just worry – "But _I_ – at the core of it, there may be nothing _intelligent_ in finding betrayal here, but it still gnaws at me when I let myself remember and needles at me when I can't – and even then I see, I do, I see that something from outside is buoying you up, holding you back from raising a hand against yourself – and I'm _grateful_ , even while my skin is crawling, and I can't –" Guilty and bitter and building up a cloud of sparks around himself again, darting and stopping chaotic up against his skin, frozen and tonguetied – 

You say the thing you held back when you were angry, now that you're not, it comes out differently – "I have that and _you don't_ – and I have no _right_ to rip into you, no matter how egregiously you flip your shit, I was frightened, yes, but that doesn't mean I hurt you any less, and I'm sorry, god, I'm so _sorry_ -" and you find yourself inching closer, leaning toward him dizzily until your hand rests on his arm, you're not sure if to comfort him or to catch yourself or verify that he's there and not shutting you out again.

Astris flinches a little but doesn't move away again, just stays rooted and staring at your fingertips where they dimple into the flickery film around his skin and working his jaw until you think he might slice his lip clean through. "Please don't, I – I _gave_ you the right to rip into me, and to whatever you find, even if that turns out to be a rabid howlbeast more times than not –" and he winces again against the bubbling up of nervous laughter – "I promised to give you everything I could, and instead – you accused me of turning away from what little we have when I was really trying too hard to cling to it. My –" 

He takes a shaky-audible panicky breath and now he steps back, clutching his arms over his chest, in slow teetering retreat as he speaks, rapidly, now, the things held back and rehearsed in his head – "My greater awareness of my body, there, spilling over from what we do here – you were right to be afraid. I could hide more sensation but when it started to extend to more _pain_ – and in places that had been hardened to pain for centuries – she watches that, she... takes an interest." He stops moving at the same time he stops talking, like he's hit an invisible wall in his mind, cloaked horrors and grayed-over details, you're still sealed out from his thinkpan but you read it in his eyes, sickeningly familiar – "I don't fear her. She has no way of tracing you this way, is too arrogant to guess, too caught up in – but I was afraid that _you_ – I've been fearful and petty and –" And he gasps and bows his head and tears are running yellow streaks down his cheeks, locked tense like he wants to cover his face and doesn't want to stop digging his claws into his arms, run out of coherence in a jumble of half-finished thoughts –

You can't hide the horror in your face that Astris didn't want to see, hope desperately his eyes are too downcast to catch it, know in a moment of breaking clarity that you're going to open your mouth and upset him even if he doesn't see, but you can't just _pretend_ – can't back away, either, can't _not_ move to comfort, even knowing that every time you touch him it's – and so you throw your arms around his shoulders and hold him, squeezing so tightly that you won't shake with anger or terror or the relief of touching him again – "I'm sorry," you blurt out again, but you can't be sorry _enough_ , and at the same time something in the very back of your mind lights up with selfish hope and you keep it as carefully boxed-up out of reach as you've ever held his pain – "I've done this to you, I wanted to give you something beautiful and all I've done is – make you vulnerable -" Your voice cracks and you can't go on.

He draws inward within your embrace, not quite a flinch but still an all-over tightening, caught between curling in and breaking away, "I knew, I knew you would –" And then – like a spring released, power lapping then flooding over your skin – his head is on your shoulder, your neck is warm and wet and breath-fogged and he's choking down sobs up close to your ear between strange high strangled-relieved whining, "I would give over the rest of the time I have left to the worst, 'pan-crushing pain they could invent for me, just for your hands on the spine you built for me here, just _once_ – my refuge – don't dare try to spare me, I'll have you in every treasured detail you can give me or I won't have you at all, don't _make_ me –"

"I know," you murmur, "I know," because you do, and you won't say _it's okay_ because it's not, won't tell him right now how much you want him, though you'll say it again later in every word you've found to describe the way pity stirs in you from the press of skin, how the light in his eyes and the thing you've built together are magnificent and devastating and more of home than you ever expected to have – won't say it right now because too much of him is caged and if he ever needed to remake that one free choice and held back in guilt and obligation it would _gut_ you.

Astris frees his arms from between your chests and wraps them around you, cautious-light and hesitant, and you're catching bits of his mind now, finally, intent listening, leaning into warmth and pity, slurring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you've _proved_ you're strong enough to handle the worst of my truths but – I keep – I'm so –" And he stops and catches his breath and you hear the moment of cobbled-together clarity, still muffled into your shoulder, still stiff, but just unclouded enough – "This is just going to get worse. What you've seen – you've seen her bored of me, and that's over. I'm going to get worse, it's all going to get into my head and I'm going to take it out on you just when you need – and I won't be able to stop it and I'm _so sorry_ –"

Your plans are in motion, there's just so much waiting, so many tiny details to line up and he needs you to accept this and you can, for him, automatically you do, but it feels like prying your bloodpusher out of your chest. You're now searingly conscious of the price paid, and every day that you have him now is the worst of your craven selfishness and the depth at which you hide that is worse still and you – you _will_ make up for it one way or another, and once you thought knowing that was hardest, but now the waiting is worse, and if you fail you'll go madder than you've ever been.

What you manage to stammer is, "I'm a jerk," and you know as soon as you say it that he's going to object and you say, "Wait – Don't tell me I'm not. I have something to say, I -" and you reach out to his mind and open your side of the conduit to take the edge off his pain for a while, to carry this for him, it's the least you _can_ do, and he shudders and growls, frustrated teary fighting with himself, claws prickling through your shirt into the skin between your shoulderblades.

And Astris opens his mind in cracks and increments, so that you catch the edges of pooled tears and bitten-back words of gratitude even though all he says is a lisp-thick muttered "Yes, all right –" And you siphon off and lock away what you can, horribly conscious of how much worse it's gotten, of how it's happened so slowly you've been able to let yourself ignore – you concentrate, and keep talking. 

"I'm an asshole sometimes, it's just the way I am, I'm going to fuck up and tear into you for stupid reasons and be sorry for it later every time but that's not _enough_ and it doesn't make it _better_ – and still, you're _allowed_ to trust me, just please recognize that, that I'm going to try to be better for you and sometimes fail – but I – I _will_ see this through to the end, I swear I won't let you always be -" _like this,_ , but your voice breaks – "and you're allowed to choose, but I can't see how I'm ever, _ever_ worth what you're going through -" _But **you** are_ , you think, as your voice gives out again, and you don't hide the thought; knowing he'll hear it as pity and love and your very real respect and mistake it for nothing more.

"I'm not willing to go – however long I have left – without you, even if it's a night, even if it's an _hour_. Even if this –" And he shrugs his shoulders in your hold, meaning the pain, the fight, everything – "Is how it's always going to be. Even... if that means a tyrian keeping you alive." And he pulls back enough to look into your eyes, teary but deliberate – "I want you to have – any measure of pity or comfort you can find in me – I'm going to fight to the last moment to hold myself together for you, even if – but just – remember how selfish I am, if that helps you, you've called me worse but that's the root of it, that my love for you is a needy selfish powerless thing underneath it all, remember what I would be without you and _stay with me_ –" 

And without breaking his gaze he opens up just the fleeting outlines of an image, diagrams and calculations and the rush of energy he casts into the cosmos, the ship's echo-mapping pulses and the power he lets off into nothingness when the fuel cells are full and still there is too much – and encoded into it all, wavelengths and frequencies altered and modulated from his familiar psionic signature, the known buzz against your skin. Just barely shifted, invisible to anyone just looking at the light – he's reproduced the tone of _your_ power and twined it in with his, and the combined waveform hurtles out in omnidirectional shells, has been for a sweep or more, spreads reaching toward the edges of the universe, like a message, like the image of your held hands – and in your sight he's crying, and in your mind he's saying _my love for you is selfish but it isn't **small** , _and – and _not everything is finite, not everything is limited, not everything has to end –_

And for a moment you see, vivid in your mind's eye – not second sight, not prophecy, just imagination and projection – learning to read these signals and their echoes, bouncing back and forth gradually fading, even if – even after – you still can't name his death; still call it _probable outcome_ in your head firmly and clearly and no matter what you call it you never try to think of yourself continuing afterward, never try to acknowledge the possibility – 

Freeing him is worth destroying yourself; that part is easy certainty – and you know intellectually and accept as fact that your friends and quadrantmates will try to pull together what's left of you, if they can, because they need you, and you know you'll let them. You see that projected future impassively, from the outside, you see them in it but you've never – never _read_ yourself into it before, not your will and your personality somehow, even though you outlived him and your whole world once in the timeline that never happened, it's different now, you're tangled up in this so deeply you've overdrawn the account of your own will to go on, and resigned yourself to numbly facing the collection of that debt. Or had. 

And now you're thinking of yourself learning to listen to the fading echoes of the story of the two of you together, seeded throughout space, like files fragmented across servers, abandoned – of going on _because_ no one else could ever hear or recognize that – and you break down, you can't help it, your eyes blur over and you sag against his shoulder, tears streaming down your cheeks, because you can _see_ it, it's not prophecy but it's – realism, it's something you could be or do, and it was so much simpler when you could just refuse to look further down that track, and you know it's a gift he's giving you but the spectre of feeling in the place of numbness hits you so hard you're gasping between silent sobs and can't speak -

You know Astris watches as your mind builds that possibility; his anguish curls in and around and tugs at your grieving imagined shadow-self and his voice goes membrane-thin, _my light, dear one_ , trying to bear you up but reeling, floating-dragging you both to collapse onto the couch. Lifts your head and kisses tears from your cheeks and chin and lips soft-frantic as he paints them with his own, and his mind tells you that he can't apologize for this, that this is too immense for apology, the measure of the gift, even if – 

And he's crying in pity, he's crying for you, but also – you've waded through the miasma of his continual terror, and in his clinging, in his endearments degenerating into weak animal calling-out – you peer into the gnarled center of his opposing daymare, the lump of swallowed ice, of you conscripted fast-withering in wires and him _left_ , silent bereaved needle-drip encaged eternity – what used to be near-certainty for him, before – and his hand drags wet and salt and mucus through your hair when he tries shakily to stroke and commingled tears blotch a stain down the front of your shirt –

It's easier when there's something outside of yourself, when you're moved to comfort, easier to be silent inside yourself for long enough to ease the hiccups out of your breathing and get your voice back when Astris needs you to speak, and you do, quiet thin measured words, as you reach up and stroke his horns with firm thumbs – "Never, I'll never let them, even if _everything_ else goes to shit, even in the worst, most unpredictable failure – I have killswitches, you know. More than one. I was careful. I'm sure of my work. If you have to know I'll explain, but I don't want to load you down with more things you'll need to forget –"

Astris shakes his head and inhales long and damp, still clutching at you like you'll dissolve. "No, I – I think I've proved how I handle knowledge I can't keep." Puffy-eyed blinking, his face mask-swollen and mottled yellow-gray – "I can't even – I just want to be able to forget about... her. Your moirail." He forms the word like a mouthful of thorns, but deliberately chosen, perhaps not understanding but recognition at least. "I'll still – remember that I resolved to trust even if you provoke – but you _didn't_ , I was out of my mind, I _am_ out of my mind, I'm sorry –" Every movement he makes to comfort still goes to clinging, his hands getting stuck clutching fistfuls of shirt and hair; enervated quivering at the touches to his horns.

"It doesn't matter who made the hole, I dug it deeper, – we don't need to sit here self-recriminating," you tell him quietly, leaning against each other; you're almost calm, no, not calm but a simulacrum of it, your emotions wrung and rolled out flat. "But – I don't want a free pass. Forget about her, yes. Remember – remember that you criticized me when you should have trusted, but also that I reacted badly out of proportion, that I said cruel things, we do when we're afraid but that doesn't make it all _right_ – remember that I'm sorry, but remember that I'm sorry _for_ something, please -" You're not even sure what you're asking him for, or why, only that you need to be imperfect in his eyes: enough, at least, that you won't devastate him by stumbling.

He wrestles enough control into his limbs to swipe his thumb under your eyes, one then the other, brushing tears – claws angled back but still trembling tapered-dangerous close to the surface – lets the gesture speak for itself for a while, wobbly-smiling, risk and trust, psionics skating, sensing over your skin as if he could encode what you need him to know of you from curve and angle, or fears losing some essential of your image in locking away your secrets. 

Finally he says the words he's been holding behind his tongue – "If you think I would ever forget _anything_ about you, unless my knowing would destroy you –" And responding to the unspoken, "...but I don't think you're perfect. I love selfishly, not _blindly_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, this chapter gave us trouble, and we spent a long time trying to iron it out, and not lose hold of our readers' belaying line, but still keep the immediate awfulness of what relationship arguments can feel like, _especially_ when one or more people in them are having problems with thought distortions. We hope that we've succeeded in this.
> 
> The Captors are in a very bad place here. Astris is dealing with being horribly isolated, abused, and in pain; Sollux is strained past the limits of his pretty amazing capacity for responsibility, on several fronts; and Alternia, planet of unfair, doesn't have anything resembling mental health care, beyond the existence of pale quadrants. They are both messed-up brilliant babies who care for each other a lot, toughing things out that people shouldn't have to tough out; and it shows.
> 
> Earth _does_ have mental health care and therapy, even though it's inconsistently available, and if things ever feel remotely this desperate to you in any relationship in your real life, for _any_ reason inside or outside the relationship, we highly recommend seeking counseling, with or without your partner. (Amberite says: it saved my marriage! Twice!) 
> 
> Non-relationship situations, likewise. Relationships, brains and lives can all have dysfunctions. Having someone to talk to, to help you build a toolkit to overcome these dysfunctions, is invaluable; and many areas have low-cost services available.
> 
> These poor alien assholes are just going to have to muddle through.


End file.
